Dragons of Unknown Wings
by Wolf-Kin
Summary: When the Hero of Neverwinter is too busy to break the Luskan siege, the gods are forced to bring in...outside aid. Abandoned
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Takes place at the very end of the original campaign of Neverwinter Nights, when the city of Neverwinter is under siege by Luskan troops. One of the quests available to the PC is to distroy the catapults and war golems; this story takes that same quest and twists it, presenting it in a new and different light.

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"Hold tight Damaliti, we're about to hit a patch of turbulence as we drop through these storm clouds," Commander Juliana barked into her gemmed bracer, quick emerald eyes fixed on the rolling mass of gray clouds below her. She reached down with her free hand and scratched her dragon's black-bronze neck scales, whispering to him, right wrist still near her mouth, "_You too, Virenyr_."

The great dragon chuckled, smoke already drifting from his nostrils in eagerness for the battle to come, "_Stop worrying…at least about me. Worry plenty about the wyrmlings in our wing. First battle for most of them…_"

Juliana snorted and spoke once more into the gemstones of her right bracer once more, the large white crystal glowing, ready to magically transfer her words to the similar bracers of all those in her Wing, each of the smaller gems surrounding the crystal representing one of the members of the Wings glowing as well, representing the fact that not a life had been lost…yet. "Alright, my Wing begin the decent on my mark. All others," she shifted her hand on Virenyr's neck so she could hold her left bracer – similar to her right in the style of gems and crystals, this one linked her to all the other Wing-Commanders – "hold for my signal. We'll scout out the battle and give you the go-ahead when we've got a better idea of what we're up against…and a better plan, for that matter." There were chuckles from the other Wing-Commanders – since when did Damaliti _ever_ have a battle-plan made in advance? They were used to thinking on their wings and forming tactics as situations came up…Juliana gave a tight smile, and stroked her dragon's scales one more time, for luck. "_Virenyr_," she addressed the bronze, "_if you would do the honors? Quick as you like, mildly steep entrance angle_."

He nodded, and Juliana felt the high backed saddle buck beneath her as he lowered his neck, angling his great wings down into the clouds. Behind her, stretching out in two long 'V's' like the formation of migrating geese, the twelve dragons and riders in her Wing followed their Wing-Commander's signal, diving down into the thunderheads that had formed around the battlefield. A land-bound creature might liken flying down into the cloud to walking into a ditch filled with fog; the dragons were soon surrounded by the thick gray 'fog' of the cloud, unable to see more than a dragon-length in front of them (roughly to the tail of the dragon flying in front of them)…but Juliana knew different. The crackle of lightning around her, the mist of the rain not yet released to earth, the press of humidity…she had spent too much time flying through storm clouds to ever mistake the sensation for anything different.

The promised turbulence hit the entire Wing just as the last dragon's tail vanished into the cloud. Virenyr's broad wings spread wide to compensate for the fickle winds, his tail lashing about as the edges of his bronze and black wings twitched, keeping him steady on course down through the thunderhead with what seemed to be minimal effort. But Juliana's hand on his neck revealed the truth; muscle and sinew and veins clenched, the dragon fought the winds every foot of the way. The other dragons in her Wing, especially the younger ones, were less skilled, and less lucky. The winds threw them first one direction, then another. Juliana gritted her teeth against their rider's panicked cries, and she shouted into her right bracer, "Hold steady! If you're going to be blown off course, be blown off course together!"

Shaky laughter echoed up from the crystal; all knew that their Commander was notorious for demanding that all dragons be in their correct place in the flying formations at all times. _"Well, at least if a group of them gets separated from us, they have a better chance of surviving the battle than if they were on their own,_" she explained to Virenyr, reaching up to scratch beneath the flat, smooth gold circlet around her forehead, itching beneath the alexandrite stone placed in the center of her forehead, the gem tingling as she touched it.

Virenyr snorted, still consumed with his own battle, but commented, _"At least we're almost out…the mage-scouts…"_

She raised her bracer to her mouth once more, depressing two particular gems to address those two riders alone; the mages at the end of each line that doubled as scouts, "Mage-scouts, we're almost out. Prepare to cloak us on my mark….MARK!"

Just as the blue and white magic flowed about all thirteen dragons and humanoids, Virenyr burst out of the underside of the cloud, flaring and swooping to get out of the way of the rest of the Wing. Juliana whispered her next orders, "Nice work Damaliti. Hover and take a breather, and look over the battlefield. Report in as needed."

Even as the dragons were scattering in pairs, Juliana's emerald eyes were flicking over the war raging below, silent commands to Virenyr urging him over for a better view, turning him for a new angle…the crystal on her wrist hummed as various Damaliti commented on the position of catapults, mages, where fighting was fiercest…and where Neverwinter's troops were being hit the worst. _Catapults there, battering the city…made of wood, thank Humusare. We'll need to do a Fire Flight against them…wait, are those war golems? "Virenyr, bank left!"_

Obligingly, the dragon dipped one wing, swinging around in a steep arch, whirling around to face the massive construct stomping through the streets. "Damn…" Juliana's lips formed the word even as she rubbed the hilt of her curved sword. "There's one big ugly…and there's the second. _Virenyr, are they…?"_

"_Immortal or close to it so long as their wizards are alive,"_ he nodded as he whirled upwards, gaining height; though they trusted that the mages' magic hid them from all convention eyes, there was no since in taking chances when practically-immortal-killing-constructs were involved.

"_So we kill the wizards; not so hard."_

"_Question: can we _find_ the wizards without tearing through the half of the city that isn't in flames?_"

Juliana squinted down at the rubble of the war-zone, and grinned, _"I bet those two glowing doors have something to do with the wizards!"_ she pointed, indicating the two houses in question.

Virenyr laughed aloud in delight and relief, "_Distinctive set to the houses too, too…shouldn't be hard to do another Fire Flight against each…and pick off the wizards as they escape the burning building…Humusare, I love wizards!"_

"_Me too. So arrogant, yet so easy to kill…Oh, well, time's a-wasting, soldiers are dying. Let's go."_ She lifted her left bracer up near her mouth even as she drew her curved sword with her right, "Wing-Commanders, begin your dive through the clouds. Be careful; the storm's heating up. I wouldn't be surprised if we had lighting down here in a few minutes." She paused, glancing up, and touched her alexandrite stone once more. "There's something unnatural about all this…" she whispered, half to her dragon, half to the other Wing-Commanders. "Be careful. I don't like it. This is _not_ a nice storm…Now," with a shake of her head to clear her thoughts, she moved on to business, "We have a full Squadron of five Wings with us: 65 dragons. The rest of the Flight should be arriving with Westeringe Fortress…whenever it gets here. Still, we should be able to make a sizable dent in the – what's the opposing force's name again? Luskan? – troops. At least, with all the training we've done, I should _hope_ we do. Drake, your Wing's on catapult duty. Do what you need to do to destroy them. Sit on them, for all I care. My Wing will take care of the siege golems. The rest of you, fan out and start attacking the ground troops. Try not to burn too many houses; there are still civilians in the city."

There was a pause, and then quiet affirmatives rippled up from each gem. Drake's voice came last, "Sit on them? Really? May I?"

"Drake…" Juliana chuckled, then switched hands, snapping back into combat mode, "Captain Felin, lead the right Feather in distracting those two siege golems. I'll lead the left in destroying the houses. Three with me on the north house; two with you, Captain Mers, on the south. Mage-scouts, when you see the other Wings drop from the cloud, drop our camouflage. And then everyone," she spoke into both bracers now, addressing all the dragons and riders under her command, "let's give them a battle-cry to shake the foundations of the city.…"

The other four Wings burst through the cloud, swooping to take their places flanking Juliana's Wing. The mage-scouts waved their hands, and to those on the ground below, it was like the dragons simply burst into existence with a ground-trembling roar. Many fell to their knees in pure terror as the Wings peeled off, dipping down low to flame the invading Luskan troops and their allies. No one had ever seen dragons like this before; dragons that shimmered with many colors and many combinations of the standard chromatic and metallic colors; dragons with armored humans upon their backs, humans who were just as adept in combat and magic as their draconic companions. Arrows seemed to have no effect on them; either the dragons moved too quickly for them to hit or they clattered off the tough scales or bounced off a canvasy wing, flight too spent to punch through.

In a frantic effort to combat this new force, the Luskan soldiers who were able (there weren't many of them) tried to swivel the catapults to face the attacking dragons…with even less success than the arrows. As soon as they would get a Wing or Feather – half of a Wing; six Damaliti in the Short Feather, seven in the Long, as the Commander was included – in their sights, said Wing or Feather would bank around behind them, hovering patiently until the catapult could be moved once more, only to shift positions again.

Consumed with screaming curses and sweating to move the heavy siege catapults, the commanders and crew of the catapults never noticed the angled line of dragons, led by Drake, swooping low. His dragon targeted the first catapult in the row, the second the next, and so on down the line. As they passed, they expelled plumes of flames, pulling up as soon as their personal mission was done, regrouping out of range of the still-operation catapults. The siege machines had been constructed of wood and crude rope; they stood no chance against the dragon's flame. Drake, atop his red and brass dragon Zirella, chuckled, raising his left bracer to his mouth, "Too easy, Juliana. We've got three bonfires from the catapults. I'm going to take my Wing around on a sweep of the other walls; be sure we got them all."

Off in the distance, Juliana stood up in her stirrups and waved her curved katana three times in salute. "Go ahead," she said into her bracer, "Try and be around when the real fun starts."

He chuckled as he ordered his Wing to form up in the standard 'Alpha' formation once more, so named because the two lines of angled dragons seemed to resemble the letter 'A,' "I'll be there. You save at least fifty soldiers for us, and I'll be happy."

"No promises Commander; first there, first served." Juliana turned her attention to the two dragons under her personal command, and then glanced towards where the other five under Captain Mers were harrying the siege golem in question. Hovering high over the construct's head, the dragons could breathe their fire down on it in relative safety. But the attacks did little more than make the golem angrier; its arms waved around in the air, trying to batter a dragon out of the sky…Juliana was just grinning, thinking that there was little chance of that happening…when it did.

Deledia was the youngest of their Wing, her blue and bronze having barely reached his full size. The successes of the day had made her cocky; her dragon swooped in too close, perhaps to get her a better shot at firing off a spell or arrow, and the huge iron and stone arm connected just above the young male's shoulder, knocking him full out of the sky. One large foot lifted up, then dropped. Then scream of the human female cut the air…and then silence. Their gem, a polished fragment of garnet, blazed bright and hot on Juliana's wrist, so hot she gasped, grabbing the bracer in pain…and when she removed her hand, the light that had always lit the garnet was gone, extinguished with their life.

"No…no, gods no!" A tear welled up in the corner of her eye, swallowed so as not to blur her vision.

"Commander!" Captain Felin's worried voice echoed up from the white crystal.

"I'm fine," she whispered into it. "But…may Deledia's soul always soar the winds in peace."

"Deledia! No…How?"

"One of the siege golems." Juliana scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, looking down at the glowing purple door. "This just got personal. Split-Wing," she turned to the three, "destroy that house."

They wheeled, eyes grim as they positioned themselves evenly around the house, already whispering a favored destruction spell or lightning or – in the case of the mage – simply pulling the stones apart. There was a saying among the Damaliti that a warrior who could not fight the same way his enemy did – sword with sword, magic with magic, bow with bow – was but a foot-soldier, and unworthy to lay claim to the honored title 'Damalit.' Consequently, all wyrmlings – as both child and dragon were known – were trained in all forms of weapons, though most ended up specializing in one or another, and in magic, even if they never used more than a magic scroll or ring all the rest of their life. It was the thought and training that counted.

For one moment, it looked like none of the spells had affected the house at all. Then it exploded, stones and timber fragments flying in all directions…revealing a very annoyed Balor Lord. It took two steps out into the street, skull-like head swung up to stare at the dragons that dared harm it, fire crackling along its draconic wings, the sword he held in one hand easily as long as a dragon's tail. "UP!" Juliana barked, and not a moment too soon. Later many of those four dragons would swear they felt the wind from that sword on their tails.

"Well, there's the wizard," Juliana commented once they were out of range, looking down at the Balor Lord the size of an adult white dragon. The robed Luskan in question was standing in the wreckage of what was once a platform at the back of the house, glowing hands raised, focused on controlling his siege golem. "I suppose it's too much to hope that the damn demon was summoned by him and will vanish when he dies," the Commander continued cheerfully.

One of her Ranger Damaliti, Lieutenant Caland, mounted on a lithe silver-blue, squinted. He shrugged, and pulled his composite short-bow from its sheath on one side of his saddle, opposite his sword. Setting a gold-feathered arrow on the string, he drew the nock back to his jaw, tilting the bow sideways as he sighted down the shaft for more stability as he aimed. Flit! The wizard was actually knocked onto his back from the force of the arrow. He flailed a moment, but three more arrows from the elf, fired one after the other, put an end to all movement.

The Balor Lord snorted flames, thrusting upwards with his sword in a vain attempt to reach the dragons. "Well…it was worth a try," Caland shrugged, "And on the bright side; the siege golem has just collapsed. That should count for something."

Juliana's smile was wane as she rubbed first one bracer, than the other, finding comfort in the glowing gems…except for the shattered garnet that once linked Deledia to her comrades. Their dragons could hover forever; she had time to formulate some tactics… "Captain Mers, are you having the same problem we're having?"

"The big fiery demon that won't die with the wizard? Yep."

"Any luck?"

"None so far. Don't bother with weapons; they don't even cut him!"

"Thanks," she drawled. "Well, keep trying, and let me know if something works; I'll do the same. Oh, and will the rest of the Wing please stop throwing around the siege golem's head and get over here, where they can do something productive for a change?" Even in the middle of a war, Damaliti refused to behave seriously. In fact, the worse things got, the harder they tried to lighten the mood…to a point, of course.

In a few minutes, all twelve dragons and their respective Damaliti were discussing which spells might have an effect on the demon. _"Well, Virenyr?" _she asked her dark bronze after five minutes of no progress from either Feather, _"What do you think?"_

He sniffed the air, glancing down at the Balor Lord. _"I think we're wasting our time throwing spells randomly. He is a creature of fire, yes? Water, then, or ice. Or perhaps even electricity. But not fire."_

"_Hmm…you could be right." _Rubbing her thumb against the alexandrite in her circlet, she touched one certain gemstone, leaning forward to address the resident Druid-Damaliti, "Try…Call Lightning or Ice Storm."

He shrugged; it was no less crazy than what they were already trying, and swung his arms upwards in praise of Nature herself. The storm clouds above them seemed to pulse in response, and purple-blue-white lightning knifed down, thunder rumbling in response. It struck the Balor full on, ripping straight through the fiend's red flesh to ground itself in the cobblestones of the street. "Let it be dead…let it be dead…" Juliana whispered, eyes fastened on the evil creature. It lifted up its sword once more…and then collapsed to the ground. It reached upwards in one last vain attempt to continue the struggle, then dropped, completely still. Two arrows were shot into the base of its skull before Juliana allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief.

She lifted her bracer once more, "Captain Mers…Lightning did it for ours."

In response, light flashed down from the heavens between the second circle of six dragons some blocks away, as the human walked. "Ours too, Commander," Mers reported. Juliana could almost hear the grin in his voice; it matched hers. "Think that's the worst they can throw at us?"

"Gods I hope so. Among the worst for sure, but _the_ worst? I sure as hell hope so." She sank back in her saddle, staring out at the battlefield that stretched before her. With the addition of her Damaliti and their dragons, the Luskan foe was being beaten back to the original city walls, one painful step at a time. _Three Wings already fighting,_ she mused, identifying each of the Wing-Commanders, knowing the rest of their Wing would be close by. _Drake is still doing that sweep…and mine…Let's see then…Each of the three Wings have chosen a different area to help and support; but they've all got their respective area well secured. That section…is a mage's battleground; best not get in their way. So, that leaves me with what?_

"_We could hit the reserves; the majority of their army is waiting far from the battlefield, so that fresh troops can replace the fallen,"_ Virenyr suggested. _"While the Neverwinter soldiers fight on and on and on, getting more tired and hurt with each passing skirmish – though their guerilla tactics are quite good, considering – the Luskan troops only need to fall back to their 'impenetrable base camp' and fresh soldiers will take their place. If we cut off that stream of constant reinforcements…"_

Juliana almost whooped aloud, "_Ah, Viremyr, my bronze-black, you are brilliant! We'll stand more than just a fighting chance!" _

"_Of course I am brilliant," _his voice was smug as he whirled about, bellowing to the dragons to form up as Juliana rapped orders through her gemmed bracers. In no time the entire Wing, all twelve dragons with Juliana and Viremyr at their head, were flying in tight formation, soaring high over the battlefield, so high they were not noticed by those fighting below. By this time, most of the soldiers had gotten over their initial awe and fear at the sight of the dragons and were fighting full-out. Perhaps it was the ominous storm clouds that blocked the morning sun from sight, or the press of humidity before the storm that stank of blood, or even the hot crackle of dragons breathing fire again and again to beat the enemy back, but all felt that this war was coming to a head; all would be won or lost today, now.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Much thanks to WitchWolf and shadow0015, who reviewed! Enjoy!

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As Juliana's Wing passed over the streets of the battle-locked city, flying over the rest of the Wings on their way towards the Luskan camp, Juliana noted the position of each of the four other Wings. Commander Drake was just rounding the farthest corner of the city, a trail of bonfires stretching out behind his Wing. One by one, the catapults were being silenced by fire and ice and spell; flaming boulders from the siege machines no longer crossed the city's sky-space like comets. Commander Zacho's had positioned themselves above a certain group of mercenaries – six, maybe? It was hard to tell from so far away – and were guarding them from the air, making the press of Luskans think twice before approaching with drawn weapons.

Commanders Styrander and Wythwen had joined their Wings together for a classic maneuver: Quarter and Blaze. One Wing would separate into their two Feathers and fly to opposite ends of the chosen section of the Luskan army. Then they would race along pre-determined border lines, spitting fire the entire way to cut that section off from their fellows with a wall of fire. Once the Wing rejoined at the corner of the section, they wheeled about and stretched out in a long line. Swooping low, they laid down a blanket of fire – or spells or arrows in some cases – to exterminate the soldiers in the quarter. Finally the second Wing flew a Sweep against any surviving soldiers, laying down a second blanket of fire, targeted directly against anything still moving. In this way they broke the army into manageable chunks, destroying squads and patrols at a time, nibbling away at the edges of the soldiers.

As her Wing soared over their latest 'Fire Field' – as the patch of burning land was known in the Damaliti barracks – Commander Styrander happened to glance up, and grinned, raising his distinctive lance in salute. Juliana smiled and raised her left gauntlet to her mouth, knowing that her Wing flew too high and too fast to call a verbal greeting to him. Touching his sapphire stone, she spoke into the crystal, "Having fun yet?"

"Hell yes! Where're you headed?"

"To their main camp to set some things on fire; should stop their fresh soldiers from reaching the battlefield."

He chuckled, "Wish I'd thought of that. Good luck."

"Thanks. You too." By that time, her Wing was soaring high over what remained of Neverwinter's walls, the camp of the enemy sprawling out beneath them. Idly, Juliana sank back in the saddle, looking over the camp, waiting for a stroke of brilliance. "Hm…_Virenyr?_"

"_Yes?"_

"_Delta formation, then split the Wing?"_

"_And have each set of three start a fire in a different part of the camp? Good. Very good. But here's a tweak to it…"_

His Damalit listed closely to his advice, then chuckled. _"I've said it before, and I'll say it again; you are brilliant."_ His smug thoughts flooded her mind, and if he had been on the ground, he would have preened at the praise, sure that he never got enough. Shaking her head to herself, Juliana ordered her wing into the Delta formation; a linear box with six dragons on each side. Then each side split away into the Split-Wing formation; two dragons under the command of either a Captain, or a Lieutenant in the case of the two mage-scout Splits.

_Or,_ Juliana admitted bitterly as she and Virenyr soared even higher to better see the camp and all four Splits of her Wing, _in the case of the Back- right Feather Split, two dragons to a Split including the Lieutenant…but that's the way it has to be, with Deledia…_ She cut the thought off as she watched as each moved to a different section of the camp, giving them ample time to get into place before she gave the first order. "Mage-scouts, split away."

Confused but obedient, the two Damaliti in question soared into the middle distance, between Juliana and the rest of her wing, the right Split-Feather forced to juggle Damaliti so that in the end, they ended up with two dragons, including officers. "Now, cloak us. On my mark, drop the cloak on one of the Splits. Split, when that happens, swoop down and flame three or four tents, no more, then get out of there fast. Mage-scouts, be ready to re-cloak them on the ascent. Now!"

To the soldiers in the camp, it was like the three dragons appeared out of nowhere, dropping down with flame-rimmed jaws. In very short order, five tents – including an officer's – were encased in flames. Then the dragons vanished into the overcast sky again. For a moment, they had to stand in shock, staring at the hungrily lapping flames. But when the flames began to stretch out, seeking more fuel, they sprang into action. Those about to head out to the battle were recalled to help protect their camp as bucket brigades were formed. From above, Juliana watched the scrambling dots – that's all the soldiers looked to be from her height, just dots – with unbridled amusement. Then a wizard had the brilliant idea to summon a Water Elemental to deal with the raging fires.

As soon as the fire had died down to embers and the tent roofs were billowing inwards with the sheer amount of water from the Elemental, Juliana rubbed her hands together in glee, "Who's opposite the Split that just dropped? Lieutenant Lomyril's? Guess what you get to do."

"Oh, Commander! _May_ we?"

Juliana chuckled, "Mage-scouts, you know what to do."

"Erm, There's a bit of a problem," the senior mage-scout, Monall, began, "See, once we drop this cloak spell – for any of you – we're tapped out. Can't recast it."

Juliana was just about to address this problem when a more urgent one arose. Drake's voice, made sharp with fear, echoed up from her left bracer, "All Wings, a fire giant phalanx just appeared out of the western forest! Repeat, there is a _fire giant_ phalanx making its way towards one of the gaps in the west wall!"

She swore through her teeth and dismissed all minor problems from her mind; just as large as a dragon, a fire giant phalanx were one of the few things that stood a fighting chance of defeating a Wing of dragons. "Drake, how many do you count?" she barked even as Virenyr wheeled about, striking out for the western wall.

"Twenty to thirty; decent sized phalanx. My Wing's just finished the last of the catapults and we're pulling up."

Juliana nodded, "Do it." Then she bit her lip, looking over the Wings arrayed below her. _Alright…how to work this…call their numbers thirty for the sake of pessimism; we need to match that at least…damn fire giants that are immune to fire! I can't pull all five Wings…Feathers, then…_ "My Wing: Captain Felin, I need your Feather to continue running interference with the camp; you've got the knack of it now. Keep the soldiers scrambling from one side to another. Mage-scouts: forget the spells and join the Splits as fighters. The Splits will just have to be sure to get out of there _fast_ and fly high, perhaps even into the belly of the clouds. Captain Mers, your Feather's with me for now. Let's go."

Racing against the marching phalanx, the seven dragons and Damaliti in question sprinted away from the camp, the smoke from their exploits rising up behind them, darker than the clouds above. It seemed to take hours to reach the war zone and the two Wings that were quartering the army, and Commander Zacho's just beyond. "Commanders! You heard Drake's news. Commander Styrander, split your Wing into Feathers; one go to Drake, one carry on as you have been doing. Commander Wythwen, take your full Wing and follow Styrander's captain; Captain's Mers' Feather will take your place running sweeps. Commander Zacho! Split up your Wing and leave three to protect those adventurers; the other nine will fight the fire giants," she ordered into her bracer.

Affirmatives and soft prayers for good luck echoed up to her ears. As she watched the various switches taking place, she heaved a sigh, her first full breath in ages, and glanced out over the battle once more. Thunder rumbled close, and she glanced up to see if perhaps it would rain at last; rain, and break this press of air…what she saw made her gasp in shock. _"Virenyr! That…that's…it's a…"_

Her dragon's voice was awed, _"It's a Storm Dragon."_

Storm Dragons! Her mind raced as she stared at the huge dragon riding the winds of the storm front, colors swirling around his scales; blues and whites and grays and the pale, iridescent purples of lightning. Storm Dragons, rarest of the rare. Storm Dragons, largest of the large. Storm Dragons, the only dragons that could summon powerful storms with a glance; Storm Dragons, who breathed lightning strong enough to knock a dragon from the sky; Storm Dragons who cared not a whit for humanity or other dragons, for that matter, who only lived to destroy, who had the strength to defy the Damaliti Flights. The only blessing Juliana could think of was that at least they never flew together; she didn't want to think of the damage a Wing of Storm Dragons could cause. One was bad enough; their scales were tougher than most dragons', leaving no vulnerable places. Often it took the lives of an entire Wing or two to kill one.

And here she was, all of the Damaliti beneath her too involved with their various missions to notice the approaching Storm Dragon, armed with nothing but a sword that would break as soon as it hit the beast's scales and a bow that was even less effective. "Commander Styrander, give me your lance."

He was close enough to look up at her and convey puzzlement through his eyes…but her attention was fixed on the slowly approaching evil; it took its time flying, thinking that there was no rush, whatever it was going to destroy would still be there in a half-hour or so, and no one was going to rise up to challenge it…Styrander's eyes followed hers, and then he swore, "Dear gods…a Storm Dragon….No!" he suddenly realized what she had planned, "Commander, please! Don't go after it alone! My Feather and yours…"

"Styrander, shut up and give me the lance. One has just as good a chance of killing it as a baker's dozen."

He glanced at the lance in question, then grinned, reversing it to pass the handle up to her, "Be careful with it. It was my grandfather's."

As soon as Juliana touched the shaft, she knew that she had made a good choice in demanding it. "This is Dragonkiller!" Of all the lances it could have been, it was the one that killed a dragon – any dragon, even a Dimaliti's – on contact with its blood. Usually forbidden in Flights and Wings, as it was too easy to accidentally nick a dragon… "Styrander…." Her tone was low in warning.

"My grandfather said to take it; he thought we might need it. So…" he shrugged.

"Well…" Juliana glanced up at the razor-keen tip, glistening even in the pale light that had wormed its way down through the clouds, "I can't fault you; I'm too glad to have it now. I'll bring it back with the Storm's head pierced to it."

He waved agreement as she lowered it over the pummel of the saddle, letting it slide through her fingers so that the point rested near Virenyr's neck. _"You watch that,"_ he complained as he began the long flight to the confrontation with the Storm Dragon, picking up speed with every beat of his wings.

"_I will,"_ she promised. _"You know,"_ she added after a moment, tone thoughtful as she pulled off her bracers, storing them away; she needed no distractions from her Wing-Commanders or Wing if she was going to do this, _"This is probably how we got here, too…the Sly One, the scaled raiders' queen who wants all the worlds, threw open a door between our worlds to summon the Storm Dragon…and our wizards and clerics were able to catch it as it swung shut, wedging it open. Now, with the crystals they gave us Commanders that let us pass through the Sky Door, we can open it full to let a Flight – or more – through, or leave it cracked shut to keep the worlds separate…"_

"_Yes…"_ Virenyr mused, _"And we have that strange god to thank for warning us that our aid was needed here, now."_

"_The one with the missing right hand? Who scared the cleric so badly that she fainted? I remember…Faerun. Neverwinter. Luskan. Old Ones, Creator Race. Morag. Maugrim. Aribeth the Betrayer. Strange words on our tongue, strange names. I'm glad the Generals decided to let my Flight be the one to enter the new world."_

"_Me too. This is all so…different, so fascinating. I only wish that we have a chance to see the city when it is not torn asunder by war."_

And then there was no time for talk, even mental talk, as they drew close to the Storm Dragon at last. It gave them a passing glance, not concerning its mighty self with mere mortals, one lazy beat of its wings sending it closer to the city, the lust for blood and death gleaming in its red eyes. No. This would never do. Juliana's eyes narrowed as she tucked Dragonkiller into the hooks made for spears and lances on the edge of the saddle, stringing her short bow. It must see _them_ as a threat! It must stop and fight _them_! They, who stood a slightly better chance of surviving one of its attacks rather than the defenseless Wings and the city of Neverwinter.

Sliding one of her special arrows onto the string, she drew the arrow back to her ear, then beyond, putting as much force as possible into this single shot. She didn't bother to aim, but let the arrow slid off her fingers and sing out as it cut the air. It shattered on the neck scales of the Storm Dragon, but what she intended came to pass; its eye turned to her, narrowed in annoyance at this petty human who dared disturb its flight. Fanning the air with its massive wings, it opened its long jaws and roared, perhaps intending to frighten her off once and for all.

Though the Storm Dragon was far bigger than he was, Virenyr stood his aerial ground and bellowed right back, snorting tongues of fire out his nostrils. Juliana had just enough time to store the short bow away and bring the lance out, and then the Storm Dragon was upon them, long neck stretched out, teeth bared. Virenyr swung around at the last moment, the great scaled beast rushing by them, creating his own wind with his great bulk. Juliana snaked the gold-colored lance down, all fourteen feet of it extended, striking at the Storm's haunch. It skittered off the hard scales, and Juliana winced, commenting to Virenyr, _"I was afraid of that; we need to hit true, with a full-fledged charge behind us."_

"_What do you need me to do?"_

"_Stay alive. Get me an opening. I want to slam Dragonkiller right through its heart; no sense in taking chances."_

With a soft grunt, the black-bronze flared his wings, pivoting away from the second rushing attack, and began to back up for a true charge. _"No sense in sitting still and getting hit. Let's attack, and be done with it! Ready?"_

Juliana nodded, adjusting her grip on the lance, keeping it low over her dragon's shoulder for better control. _"Let's do this. CHARGE!"_

The Strom Dragon, when it saw the Damaliti rushing towards it with lance extended, paused. This little one looked to be more trouble than it had originally anticipated. Folding its wings to its side, it shot forward in a charge of its own, losing any hope it had of using its feared lightning breath; the two combatants were too close together to risk it. On that same token, the lance was unwieldy in close quarters, and through snaps of its jaws and pursuits of the retreating black-bronze, the Storm Dragon kept the Damaliti from using the lance as effectively as it needed to be used to kill it.

The press of doom was heavy in the air, the intermittent lightning and rumbles of thunder providing a fitting backdrop for this greatest of confrontations; if the Storm Dragon got through Juliana, the war would be over. Luskan would win. But the young Wing-Commander's warrior blood was up, and through sharp jabs, she managed to keep the Storm Dragon from slaughtering them at its leisure. It was a fight to the death, and a close-matched one at that. Juliana grinned as she leaned into her next thrust, seeking to drive the lance-head into the vulnerable veins at the muscular base of its wing; she wouldn't have it any other way.

As the greatest of aerial battles began in the skies high above Neverwinter, a very similar one was taking place in its depths. The ranger Saima padded forward, drawn sword in one hand, the other aloft, grasping a glowing amulet. Save for the light of her amulet, not a speck of light shown down in this, the deepest of depths. She paused in her tread just before a simple stone door, so much ones she might encounter in the cave lairs of various creatures she had hunted, but so much more. Instinct told her that her enemy was just beyond this door… "At last," she murmured aloud, "At long last."

How long had it been, she wondered as she took this moment to steel herself for that was to come. How long had she been tracking this evil Queen? Since she started searching for the cult…? No. Earlier. Even when she was just a student at the Neverwinter Academy, or while she was tracking down the lost cure for the Wailing Death, she was doing a slow dance of battle with this creature, each victory getting her ever closer to the final confrontation…this.

She heard her heart pound in her ears as she reached to push open the door, but no other sound. It was rare, in these days of late, that she hunted alone, but now…it was right that she stand her without even her wolf companion at her side. She had begun it alone, and alone she would finish it. She glanced down at the amulet around her neck, and smiled; alone physically, but never spiritually. He had promised her that, and she believed him; his spirit would always be with her.

It was time. She shoved open the stone door and came face to face with the Queen of the Old Ones herself, Morag. Saima had seen projections of the Queen before, and had battled Old Ones both in the ruins near Beorunna's Well and here, in the Source Stone Sanctuary. But nothing compared the Queen in her glory. Saima blanched, caught off guard at the aura of power and evil around the Old One.

Morag's smile was slow and as satisfied as a predatory cat's, her voice smooth and easy, "You are powerful…for a half-elf slave. You have slain Maugrim, the prophet who heralded my coming—" Saima remembered that battle – it hadn't happened twenty hours ago. The so-called prophet was insane and an idiot to boot. After all she had been through, all she had heard about him, she had been expecting…something more.

"—You have defeated Aribeth, the champion I chose among the slave races—" That had been an interesting fight, too. It had taken every ounce of her persuasion and conviction, but she had convinced Aribeth to turn away from Morag and walk the path of light once more. To the best of her knowledge, Aribeth had turned herself into Lord Nasher and Aarin Gend, and was now in the cells beneath the dungeon, awaiting her fate as a traitor…provided the city survived all this.

"—And you have slaughtered many of my warriors and priests." Saima was interested in how Morag ranked those three things; Maugrim, then Aribeth, and her warriors at the top. "But now you face Morag, Queen of the Old Ones, High Priestess of the Creators! Kneel, slave, and I shall let you live!"

_And pigs will fly,_ Saima thought grimly. The free-spirited ranger gave a tight smile in response to this offer, and spat out, "I bow to no one, Morag! Your time is over; the Old Ones shall not rise again!"

With no more warning, the lizard-like woman swung her staff in a circle, shouting, "I shall rip away your flesh and feast on your soul, slave!"

Saima jumped to the side, dodging the spell thrown at her, drawing her long sword. It was time to end this six-month adventure.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry it's been so long since I updated this: I got extremely busy, so busy I didn't even have a chance to write. Much thanks to those who reviewed: As always,if you like this, tell me - it makes my day. If you don't, please explain how I can improve - I'm always looking for good constructive criticism. Enjoy!

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Up above the earth, Juliana and Virenyr fought on against the Storm Dragon. Juliana supposed that they were lucky that the Storm Dragon tired at about the same rate they did; it kept them equal. And it was because of that that Virenyr saw their opportunity. The Storm Dragon was fond of soaring above them to dive down…Virenyr was always agile enough to dodge away, forcing the Storm Dragon to turn around in mid air so that his back was never vulnerable.

Perhaps the Storm Dragon made his lair near the coast, where the air was heavier and easier to fly in, or perhaps it was not used to flying so high for such a long length of time, or maybe the air itself in this world was different; Juliana's circlet helped her quickly adjust to the changing pressures and amount of air, and Virenyr had been flying for so long that he didn't notice the differences.

In either case, it soon became clear that the Storm Dragon _was_ tiring, and tiring quickly; it no longer flipped in the air as fast as it once had, its wings laboring to keep it steady.

"_Juliana, the next time he dives, hold on tight…and get that lance ready."_

"_What…?_" That was all she had time for; the Storm Dragon was descending on them from above, and Virenyr seized the moment. He shot upwards even as the Strom Dragon was dropping, peaking and curving about to dive so fast even Juliana's stomach flipped; it had been a _long_ time since they needed to do such acrobatics for combat!

But then she saw what Virenyr was talking about; they were dropping down as the Storm Dragon slowly – so slowly – turned to face them once more…no, not dropping. _Diving_. They used gravity for their benefit, giving them the force of a charge in far less space then Juliana would have thought possible…of course! Juliana realized her dragon's plan now, and snaked the lance tip forward so she gripped the very butt of it, its full length extended before him. She crouched forward and braced herself….

The Storm Dragon had just finished its turn when they were upon it. It had no time to react, much less dodge. The lance was driven deep into the left side of its chest, a fountain of blood spouting out from the mortal wound.

Yes, it _was_ a mortal wound; Juliana knew it even before she saw its red eyes cloud over, before its wings crumpled, before it began to fall. It was in the set of the lance in her hands, the tremors that raced up and down it, the very feel of power behind their dive…

"_Juliana, you idiot! Stop daydreaming and let go of the lance! It's going to drag us down with it!"_

Oh. Right. She dropped the lance and Virenyr soared high, circling around the falling Storm Dragon. It hit the ground hard, back first, and rolled onto its side, one claw reaching for the lance as if to try and pull it out…but it was still. Damaliti and dragon circled overhead, watching for any signs of movement… _"I really hope it's dead. Even more so than that Balor Lord…"_

Virenyr concurred. _"I think so…"_ But he was still cautious as he landed some distance away, ready to flee back to the sky if it turned out to be a feint. Juliana kicked her feet out of the stirrups and drew her sword, sliding down off his back to the plains. _"What are you doing!"_

"_Making sure. Besides, I made a promise to Styrander. I'm going to keep it,_" her tone was grim as she walked forward to the bulk of the evil creature. She nudged it with her toe, then kicked it. Nothing. She had been right the first time; it was dead. But just to be on the safe side…she walked to the base of its head, and chopped downward with her sword. It took three powerful hits for the scales, weakened by the dragon's death, to break open and reveal the flesh. From there on in, it was no harder than butchering a cow.

Her sword and clothing were slick with its blood by the time the head lay separate from the neck, and she was panting from the exertion, but it was worth it. She planted one foot on the side of the lance, and yanked it from the Strom Dragon's body with a wet squelch. Then, she fulfilled her promise to the measure; she speared the head on the lance, and bore it back to Virenyr.

"_That is disgusting," _he complained as she mounted back up, setting the butt of the lance on her toe for stability, fastening leather straps around the lance to hold it upright, the head dripping blood down onto anything below it: the bronze-black's scales, the saddle leather, Juliana's shoulder, her bow and arrows…

"_I know,"_ she sighed, glancing up at the evil head, eyes glazed forever in death. _"But look on the bright side: it's over. Can't you feel it?"_

As if in response, the rain clouds above them opened, and the gentle storm broke over them, washing away the stench of death and the press of evil. Juliana threw her head back and closed her eyes, letting the rain soak into her coppery hair and splash onto her skin. She was exhausted, but she had won. _"Come on, Virenyr…let's see how the rest of the Wings fared."_

He spread his wings, and leapt up into the sky, not hampered greatly by the rain, and began a slow flight back towards the city. Down below, Juliana noted Luskan soldiers sitting down on the grass, throwing their weapons to the side, hands on their heads in surrender. Patrols of Neverwinter guards rounded up each group of prisoners, herding them back to the city. Every dungeon and prison would be filled to bursting by the time this was over.

There were other soldiers walking with the Neverwinter guards, too; soldiers marching under different banners, their uniforms varied and unusual. _"Who are they?"_ Juliana wondered aloud.

Virenyr glanced down and gave a mental shrug, _"Our reinforcements, that much is clear. Beyond that…how are we to know?"_

Juliana chuckled, and leaned forward to pat his neck in praise and thanksgiving. It was then that perhaps the greatest irony of the battle occurred. Down below, a Luskan soldier happened to glance up as the shadow of the dragon and Damalit passed overhead, and saw his chance to make himself a legend. He had fled the battle when it appeared that his side would lose, but if he were to kill one of those strange dragons….! He'd be a hero, not a deserter. So decided, he placed a magical arrow on the string of his bow and bent it back, sighting the dragon…he let the arrow fly, but an axe blade ended his life before he could see its effects.

The soldier was a better shot than he knew; Juliana gave a soft gasp and grunt as the arrow found its way through her armor and into her back, just beneath her shoulder blades. She was surprised that Virenyr didn't notice, but took advantage of that fact; she would not have a huge fuss made over her for a flesh wound!

Reaching up behind her, her fingers found the shaft of the arrow. She almost passed out trying to yank it out, and thought better of that plan…her own blood was making her fingers slick, and black and white sparks where dancing in front of her eyes, but she thought herself too proud to faint or to call out for help.

Somehow, she managed to snap the majority of the wooden shaft, leaving a few inches still sticking up from her back. The feathered fletching slid through her nerves fingers, and she had to think hard about staying awake.

"_Juliana? Are you alright?" _Virenyr had noticed her strange silence at last.

"_I'm…I'm fine. Just tired."_

"_Ah. Yes, of course. We are almost over the city; why don't I drop you off in the center and you can have a nice rest on the ground until the Flying Fortress gets here? I can certainly take care of sending out scouts and sweep riders…"_

"_Good…yes. Thank you."_ She leaned against Virenyr's flexible spinal ridge, gripping it tightly in her fingers to keep from swaying in the saddle, and laid her head down, eyes glazing over as she fought against the blackness that welled up around her.

The next thing she knew was Virenyr's soft voice in her mind as he banked around, explaining to her that there wasn't a large enough open area on the ground to accommodate him, so he was going to land on the flat roof of the largest building…then she felt his wings, just behind her, fan the air, felt his hindclaws seek out the flat stone roof.

"_Even this is a bit cramped," _he admitted as he arched his wings in an attempt to give her more room.

"_It's fine,"_ she reassured as she slid off, leaving the lance where it was, studiously keeping her back to the battlements. The _last_ thing she needed was to have Virenyr fuss over her! She lifted one arm in salute, _"Go on; I'll give a shout if I need something,"_

He nodded his great head and leapt upwards again, the roof groaning as he rested all his weight on his back claws for a moment. Juliana leaned – albeit carefully – against the battlements, resting her elbows against one, letting it support her weight, as she watched her black-bronze wing his way west, to meet up with the rest of the Wings. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to stop the roof from spinning around her. She was fine. As long as she believed that, she would be.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Witchwolf, my faithful reviewer: Never fear, as long as there is at least one person reading it, I'll continue. I've gotten used to people overlooking my stories… I'm not quite sure why, but they do, so I have to learn to live with it.

Anyways, this could very well be considered a continuation of the last chapter, showcasing the 'other hero.' I tend to write as 'streams of consciousness,' one thing blending into another, which makes it hard to break the story into bite-size chunks for uploading.

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"No – I cannot die! I am immortal! NOOOO!"

Saima planted her sword tip on the stone floor, panting, as she watched Morag, the one-time Queen of the Old Ones, die. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back, and smiled. Yes…it was over. Against all odds, she had conquered the 'immortal' Old One. Now, perhaps, she could rest.

But not at this second, she realized as the ground beneath her gave a lurch, startling her into raising her sword…Of course. Morag had created the Source Stone, and with her death…by the time that thought crossed her mind, Saima was already sprinting full out through the twisting passageways.

The world, such that it was, was going into its death-throes, and Saima didn't know if there was a way out anymore…she splashed through the shallows at the edge of the small pool, and then froze. There was a shimmering golden portal right in front of her…that had _not_ been there when she entered this, the Inner Sanctum. She hesitated for but a moment, and then dived into it just as rocks from the ceiling began falling down around her; beggars could _not_ be choosers!

She stepped out onto a small rock island in the middle of what appeared to be an endless ocean. Pleasant, but…not Neverwinter. She turned in a slow circle, and relaxed when she saw the only other surviving Old One approaching her – the Word Slave Haedraline. "Haedraline! What is this place? How did I get here?"

Her voice was weaker then it had been, but no less sibilant, "I used my magic to open a portal from the collapsing Source Stone into this astral pocket, a temporary place of refuge between that world and your own. I am glad you found the portal and escaped with your life, warm-blood…but my time here grows short. The Words of Power are broken and my magic is fading. Soon I will pass from this existence and this astral pocket will also collapse."

Saima shook her head like a dog trying to get water out of its ears so that it can better hear its master, "You mean…you're dying? What?"

Haedraline nodded, "The time of the Creator Race is over. There is no place for me in your world now, just as there was no place for Morag. I have accepted this, warm-blood."

Saima shook her head once more, "I can understand why, but…it seems a bitter reward for you, after all these millennia…Never mind," she added hastily when Haedraline hissed annoyance, "go on."

"You have faced Morag and the Old Ones and triumphed. Even the foul and ancient magics of the dark Queen could not stand against your might. You are the savior of Neverwinter, warm-blood - but you are also much, much more. You have altered the fate of not just your own world, but a thousand others that would have fallen to Morag's armies."

"Thousands?" Saima could hardly wrap her mind around it, "I saw the doors in the Source Stone, but…there were only a handful of them. Thousands of worlds?"

Haedraline nodded, "Yes, thousands. Already there is one who rejoices at the death of Morag."

Saima shrugged, "I did what I had to do."

"Perhaps. But few could have faced Morag's power and survived. But even though you have ended the threat of the Creator Race your work is far from done, for I have seen glimpses of what fate awaits you," Haedraline took on a faraway look as she spoke, "Your legend and fame will continue to grow, spreading throughout the North. But Morag will not be the most dangerous foe you face in your lifetime. As you become ever more powerful, so will those who seek to destroy you."

"Someone seeks to destroy me?" Saima repeated, then shook her head, "No offense, but tell me something I don't know. People have been trying to destroy me since I graduated from the Academy six months ago."

Haedraline chuckled, sounding like a broken tea kettle, and elaborated, "There are many who will try to steal that which you have worked so hard for, and others will seek to forge their own legend by destroying you. Your enemies will band together; they will strike when you least expect it, where you least expect it. That is the price of fame and fortune. More than this I cannot say, for my magic has grown weak with the destruction of the Words of Power, and the mists of time cloud my vision."

Saima sighed, "I was afraid of that…" she muttered.

Haedraline continued as if she had not been interrupted, "Quickly now, warm-blood. I cannot sustain this astral pocket much longer. The portal behind me will return you to your own world," Saima glanced behind the lizard-woman at the platform at the back of the little island and nodded understanding; nothing she hadn't done a thousand times before. "I thank you for all you have done - never again will I be a Word Slave. Go through the portal so that I may finally pass to my long awaited eternal rest."

Saima bowed, unable to stop a prickle of hot tears in her eyes as she whispered, "Goodbye, Haedraline." With her sword sheathed at last at her side, she walked passed the leader of the Word Slaves, climbing the low steps that lead up to the portal. Her face lit by the glow of the blue column of magic, she paused once more, and glanced back. Her eyes locked with Haedraline, and a wave of understanding passed between them. She gave a short nod, which was returned with due gravity, and then she stepped into the portal. The tiles beneath her feet trembled, and then she was gone.

She stepped out of the column of light, and found herself back where she started almost a full day ago; in front of Lord Nasher and Aarin Gend. They were talking in soft voices, and Saima couldn't help but notice the light of life in both their eyes. She smiled with relief; she'd thought that the troops would be cowed with Maugrim – say nothing of Morag – dead, but it was good to be reassured.

Aarin was the first to notice her; he broke off in mid-phrase and gesture, turning to her. A slow smile curved his lips, and he stepped towards her, then paused. "Ah, Saima…I am always glad to see you, but even more so now. I had feared that you had perished with the Source Stone."

Saima shrugged, "I would have, if it hadn't been for Haedraline," she admitted. Before the spymaster could inquire further into that cryptic statement, she had a brilliant idea, "You say the Source Stone was destroyed? Totally? And what of the Words of Power?"

"I know very little, only that it shattered about an hour ago. Master Ford, the leading archeologist, would know more…" his eyes lit up as he caught on to her plan, "But of course, I would be happy to go down with you to see him; I wish to be sure of what was told to me." As far as excuses went, it was weak at best, and they both knew it. And so before Lord Nasher could get a word in edgewise, they hurried off to the lower levels of the castle, seeking out the hidden passage that once led down to the Source Stone.

Behind them, Lord Nasher snorted into his mustache, muttering "And I thought Aribeth and Fenthick were bad!"

They couldn't have reached the lower passages fast enough to suit Saima. She half-dragged Aarin into a shadowed corner that she remembered from her two trips down here, spinning to face him…he pulled her into a gentle embrace, hands skimming over her form, checking for…she couldn't help but wince when he accidentally probed the gash in her side.

"My love! You're hurt!"

She arched an eyebrow, "Did you really expect me to come out of the confrontation with Morag unscathed?"

"If you had, I would not have been surprised," he murmured into her ear, "I have said it before, and I shall say it again; you are a marvel of a woman, Saima."

She tilted her head back to receive his soft kiss, wrapping her arms about his broad shoulders even as his slid around her waist, mindful of her wound, drawing her still closer. She sighed, and laid her head against his shoulder, breathing in his reassuring scent of leather and cinnamon. "Gods, Aarin….I'm so tired…tired of fighting, tired of moving…"

"You've earned a rest," he murmured as he cradled her, stroking her back, "If no one else has, then you, my love."

She glanced up, her smile crooked as she gently traced a finger along the shadows beneath his eyes, the product of many long nights coordinating the fighters of the Lord's Alliance, "And what of you, Aarin? Come; Neverwinter can survive without her heroes for a few minutes, at least."

He hesitated, then eased her to the floor, sinking down beside her, fingers straying for her side once more, "I should see to your wound…I am no cleric, but I have some skill in healing, and side wounds are always tricky to bind by yourself. I promise I'll be gentle."

She nodded and slid off the chain mail, then the plain green and brown woodland shirt below it. Clad only in a breastband, she leaned back against the cool cavern wall and shifted her arms out of his way. Kneeling at her side, his fingertips skimmed across the blood-stained cloth pad bound around her side with a single strip of linen. She glanced down into his arced eyebrow and rolled her eyes, "I did it while crouching behind a stone with Morag preparing another spell to hurl at me."

"That, my love, is quite obvious," he drawled, slitting the binding linen strip with his dagger, peeling both linen and soft cotton bandage from her skin, leaning close to inspect the wound. "I believe you were right," he murmured as he ran his fingertips along the edge of the wound, "This is not serious, or even very deep. It will heal on its own," still, he searched through her bag – bloodstained and ripping at the seams, it had seen better days – for a healer's kit to rebind it.

Saima held her tongue as he spread the salve over her broken skin and wrapped the long bandages about her lower ribs, effectively sealing the wounds from the air. The ache in her side already fading, she stretched and smirked, "So this was basically a ploy to see me without my shirt?"

He chuckled and leaned over, "Of course," he whispered, his lips brushing across hers.

She returned his soft affections, "Maybe now that Neverwinter is safe, we can finally be together…I believe you promised me one tropical paradise?"

He threw back his head and laughed, "And you shall have it." He scooped her up into his arms, then added as he settled her onto her feet, eyes roving over her form, "I once heard the court bards sing of how you found the cure for the Wailing Death; the second stanza claimed that you once stole and wore the uniform of a Bloodsailor to find the second regent. Is that…?"

She rolled her eyes, kicking her shirt up into her hands, "Unfortunately. Gods, did I hate that uniform; I looked like a cheap prostitute." She tried not to notice the gleam in his eyes, and fixed him with a glare, "Don't even think about it. Help me with my armor?"

"You don't need to wear it, you know," he remarked as he picked it up, "Castle Never _is_ safe, especially by your standards…"

"I've just gotten into the habit of wearing it, that's all," she shrugged, "I feel half-naked without it. Stop staring," she chuckled as she poked him in the shoulder.

"Just the thought of it, my love. Just the thought of it…" he trailed a kiss along her pointed half-elven ear, fingers skimming along her jaw, cupping her chin to tilt her face up once more. "I love you, Saima," he whispered, "If I say it a thousand times, it will not be enough."

She reached up and framed his face with her slim hands, "My heart mirrors yours; I love you, Aarin. I cannot make many promises for the future, only this: I will find a way to be with you, always. If Fate does not allow it, then I will defy Fate."

"And anyone else foolish enough to stand in your way," he grinned.

"That, my love, goes without saying," she pointed out, "Come on, let's go see the Source Stone before they get suspicious and come looking for us."

A few minutes later, and several words to Master Ford, found them standing in front of what remained of the Source Stone. Saima was impressed; except for the inner most section, there was not a piece of the once-huge and glowing crystal left that was larger than her forearm. She crouched down, running her hand through the tiny fragments and ground dust, marveling at the tremors of magic that prickled against her skin. _Even now, destroyed, it is powerful…_

She brushed off her hand, then plunked a piece as long as her little finger from the dust, wiping it off as she stared at the inner section. It reminded her of the heart's core of a great tree; strong and ancient, and polished. If it had been a tree, she grinned, tucking the fragment away, she would have wanted it polished and sliced into boards for some grand ballroom floor. With that thought still in her mind, she walked up to it, then circled it, then reached out a hand and rubbed the cool, smooth stone thoughtfully.

"My love?" Aarin's voice was a quiet murmur in one ear, "Are you sure touching it is safe?"

"Safer now than when Morag was in it," she responded absently, examining the stone with more than just her five senses, "And we could touch it with no ill effect then…Feel this and tell me I'm not delusional."

His large callused hand joined hers on the remains of the Source Stone, not quite sure what he was supposed to be looking for…. "It's warm," he said at last, "very subtly warm. Saima?"

She nodded, "This was what kept Neverwinter warm and safe in the dead of winter. Now that it's shattered…" she sighed, removing her hand from the mottled blue and purple core. "I don't know what we're going to do," she admitted wearily as she began to lead the way back to the surface, "The Stone retains some warmth, but not enough to warm the entire city. Not anymore. It's interesting – or ironic, at least – that Morag sheltered the very people she swore to enslave."

Once more in the dark corridors of the secret passage, he stopped, reaching up to massage her temples, "You've had no sleep in these twenty-three hours, have you?" his chide was as gentle as his touch.

She leaned back against him, eyes closed, "No time. War going on, remember? I needed to defeat Morag…so much I couldn't even help with the siege."

"Do not worry about it," he suggested, "The siege was broken quite some time ago."

"Reinforcements from the Lord's Alliance?"

He smiled, "No. Though they have arrived at last, they were too late to do anything but help mop up the last of the Luskan soldiers."

"Then who…?"

His lips replaced his fingers at her temples, and she forgot the rest of her question. He hesitated, then shook his head, "Later, after you have rested. They're…interesting."

"My "interesting," or your "Interesting?" her lips quirked, her fingers tracing intricate insensible on his forearm, now wrapped comfortably around her waist.

Aarin just shook his head, tugging his splayed fingers through the snarls in her dark hair. "We haven't been able to speak to them yet; they've been busy fighting, and keep their own company."

"You dodged the question," she murmured, already half-asleep on her feet; wild goddess Rhea, was she exhausted!

He smiled, "Aye, perhaps I did. Trust me in this, Saima; when you meet them, you will want to be at your best." He brushed a kiss onto each temple, then onto the top of her head. "Come…bed for you."

"Only if you're going to join me," she muttered as he nudged her up the steps and into the hallway.

He hesitated, then shook his head with a rueful smile, "You would find no rest with me….and you _need_ rest," the last was mostly to himself as six months of twenty hour days caught up with his would-be-lover; in the brief moment that he'd stopped with her at his side, she had taken the opportunity to lay her head on his shoulder and fall asleep, half-dead on her feet.

A smile tugged at his lips as he gathered her into her arms and carried her into the room he'd commissioned when the war began. He threw back the dark green patterned quilt and slipped her beneath the sheets. She sighed, then grumbled in her sleep, rolling over to find a more comfortable position.

Aarin Gend paused a moment, then reached down and rubbed his thumb across the moonstone set into her amulet – his amulet, given out of love to her in Luskan. It glowed in response to his touch, and he slipped it off her neck, setting it on the nearby stand so that it could not choke her in her sleep.

Beyond that, there wasn't anything more he could do to make her comfortable – not without wanting to take her up on her offer. He blew out the candle at the side of the bed, then quietly slid the door shut behind him as he headed back to Lord Nasher.


	5. Chapter 5

Well WolfWitch, looks like it's just you and me, and the anticipated meeting of the planes is here at last...not that this signals the end of the tale. Oh no, you're stuck with me for awhile yet.

On a side note, Saima is actually my PC - I felt obligated to slip her in somewhere. Then as I was writing her scenesI realized that I don't like her. So you won't see too much more of her;she was mostly to show the parellels between the worlds - hero and hero,leader and leader, lover and lover. And the differences, for that matter - she's farweaker in personality than, say, Juliana. As for the Morag battle scene - I hate doing redundant things. And _everyone_ writes a 'Morag defeated' battle scene. So I skipped it for the good stuff - more Damaliti (By the way: Damalit is the singular: Damaliti the plural. Don't ask where I got the word from.)

On with the story!

* * *

The former adventurer and current lord of the city greeted Aarin with a wry smile, "That didn't take as long as I expected." 

He was spared from having to answer by one of the castle guard. Armor clanking as he skidded to a halt in front of his superiors, he threw a hasty salute with his spear, "Sirs! One of the dragons just landed on the roof of the castle. Its rider dismounted, and then it flew off to the west, leaving the rider behind."

Aarin raised an eyebrow, "Has anyone tried to approach?"

"No, sir."

"Well," Lord Nasher mused, rubbing a scar on his elbow, "You did say you wanted to meet one of them, Gend."

He nodded, "Aye, that I did. Well, then, I see only one choice…."

The guard saluted once again, "I'll have my men bring her down into the Great Hall immediately, sir…"

"That won't be necessary," Aarin waved the suggestion away, "I, at the very least, will go up to…her, is it? If she is comfortable on the roof, then we should accommodate her. It seems safest."

The guard shuddered, recalling the damage the dragons wrecked on the Luskan troops, and nodded agreement. Aarin turned to head for the spiral staircase that led up to the roof, then paused. Lord Nasher was right on his heels. "As Lord of this city," he explained gruffly to Aarin's silent question, "it is my duty to greet such mercenaries – and even if they are not, then they still have broken the siege. For that, I owe them my thanks, if nothing else. Besides," his grin was crooked, "it's the most interesting thing that's happened in months."

Chuckling, the spymaster led the way up the stairs and onto the flat roof of Castle Never. He paused at the top of the stairs, half planned, but half in shock. The guards had neglected to mention anything _about_ the actual rider, and Aarin and Nasher were taken aback by her strange armor. It was most similar to full plate, with a heavy breastplate with two sweeping upward triangles to protect the belly and a metal plate 'skirt' to protect the hips and upper thighs, open in the front and back.

But…there was absolutely no protection for the legs, beyond a series of small metal plates strapped to the outside of her muscular thighs. Instead, she wore a pair of tight black leggings, bound to her shins with gray material of the same make. If Nasher had to guess, he'd say that they were made of some kind of leather…but it was hard to tell.

By contrast, her upper half was _very_ heavily armored; he saw chainmail on her upper arms, vanishing beneath small shoulder guards to the rest of her torso. Plates on her lower arms swept up in fanciful peaks, much like the ones guarding her front. Metal fingerless gloves flashed on her hands, her hands small, fingers tapered and callused. And yet she wore no helm; there was but a flash of gold beneath her fiery hair; some kind of circlet, he guessed, like the one Aarin Gend wore. All of the metals shimmered with colors as strange as those of the dragons'; bronze and black trimmed in silvery pale gray and hints of gold. On anyone else, he guessed, the armor would be ridiculous. But on her, and her alone, it was as natural as a second skin, borne with ease and pride.

Yes, pride. He could see it in her stance even now, with her back to the battlements, head down, hands clasped behind her, legs spread far apart to grant her balance. He took a step forward, and her head came up. Challenging emerald eyes flashed beneath the golden circlet, the large alexandrite gem in the center of the circlet, the only gem he could see, pulsing with an inner light. Her stocky build tensed in preparation to fight or…

He extended one hand towards her, palm up, in a universal gesture of peace, "I am Nasher Alagondar, Lord of this city: Neverwinter."

She inclined her head in a small bow. When she straightened, her stance shifted; her heels snapped together, her shoulders were thrown back, her chin tilted, and one hand – the right one – came up in a slow salute, touching her temple before resting over her heart, fingers arched claw-like. "And I am Wing-Commander Juliana, Flight-Leader of Flight Askew in High General Dachgon's First Army. I am honored to greet you, Lord Nasher of Neverwinter."

"The honor is mine, Lady Juliana; your dragons saved my city from sure destruction. But…"

When he did not immediately follow with his question, the Wing-Commander arched an eyebrow and tilted her head in a patient urge to continue. "Where have you come from, my lady? We have never seen dragons of many colors before, and ones that fly together like troops advancing, or armor like yours…"

She hesitated, a flicker of distraction lighting into her eyes, and then frowned thoughtfully, "It is hard to explain; I am not sure I understand it myself. But we have come from a different world, a world that runs parallel to yours. The Sly One, the evil raider of an ancient race, opened a doorway to our world to summon forth the greatest of our monsters, and we took the opportunity to hold the door open, so that we could come and go as we pleased."

"But how did you know that such a door _would_ be open?" Nasher pressed.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, perhaps aligning things in her mind before beginning, "A strange god came to us; one of your gods. He told us that we would be needed, and could strike a decisive blow against the Sly One. He showed us what needed to be made to accomplish such a thing, and told us to be ready." She paused again, and swayed. Her smile was crooked as she addressed them once more, "I would say more, but I believe I'm going to faint. Will one of you two please be a gentleman and catch me before I hit the stones? Thank you." With that, her legs buckled beneath her, and she collapsed.

It was Lord Nasher who managed to catch her, but Aarin wasn't far behind him. The spymaster's voice was awed as he helped the city's lord ease her to the flat stones of the roof, "My gods, there's an arrow in her back…all that time, she was standing proud with an arrow in her back…"

Nasher shot him a glare, instincts honed by his years of adventuring taking over as he began to tug at her armor, trying to put pressure on her wound even as he did so, "I'm well aware of the fact, Gend. We need a cleric or a healer up here…" he growled when he remembered that all able-bodied clerics and healers were busy patching up the wounded near the war zone. And then he was struck with a thought, one that forced him to sink back on his haunches, considering the matter for a moment; did he trust her with this?

"My lord?" Aarin's voice was soft as he looked up from the other side of the fallen warrior.

"Go get Aribeth; she's a paladin and should be able to help…more than we two could, anyways." He had made his decision.

Aarin did not question it – a minor mercy – but nodded and stood, trotting down the steps into the castle proper while Nasher worked at removing the rest of the strange armor. He had just figured out the easiest way to remove it and was setting it to the side when Aarin returned with Aribeth in tow. Her eyes were wary even as she bowed low to the lord of the city, "I submit myself to your judgment, Lord Nasher."

"No time for that foolishness," he snapped, "come here and see if you can heal this young warrior. I'll explain later."

Her wariness was replaced by puzzlement as she approached the side of the Wing-Commander, kneeling down to examine the wound in the female's bare muscular back. When she touched the shaft, Juliana groaned, the pain no doubt flaring and redoubling. She laid cool hands on either side of the wound, a thoughtful frown tugging at her lips as she studied it. "This is recent, and from a Luskan bow, I believe. It wedged beneath her shoulder blades, but I can't tell if it hit her lung or not…Who is she?" the question was abrupt.

"Flight-Leader Juliana; she's not from the city," Aarin murmured, watching the proceedings with sharp dark eyes. "She – and the rest of her people – came from a different world; a god brought them here to help fight Morag and her army."

Aribeth's eyebrows shot up, but she was focused now on doing what she could for the wound; she held no grudge against this woman. Her fingers twined around the broken shaft, and she felt the stocky female shudder beneath her touch. "Lord Nasher, Aarin, if you would hold her still, please?" her voice was soft and cool, that of an experienced healer.

She was obeyed without question; both males gripped the fallen woman's shoulders and leaned their weight on the small of her back, keeping her still without getting in Aribeth's way. Gripping the shaft as far down as she could, the paladin took a deep breath and yanked out the arrow. Juliana screamed, bucking beneath the males' hands, and then went still as a fountain of blood gushed from the wound, held back until now by the very arrowhead that had wounded her.

"Holy gods," Aribeth whispered the curse, placing her hands on either side of the wound. She hesitated, but the sight of her fingers turning red with the flow of blood convinced her; she closed her eyes and began to chant, seeking to heal the wound, slow the blood…She groped in the dark for some god, any god, to answer her and help her. And her god answered.

* * *

Far to the west, Virenyr looked down at the demise last fire giant to the slings and arrows of the combined Wings with satisfaction; the battle was over, and the war was quieting down. He was just about to order scouts to sweep the battlefield, looking for isolated pockets of resistance, and to search the four directions for their Fortress that _should_ be arriving soon….when pain knifed into his skull, so sharp and hot that he threw back his head and screamed. 

He heard not the worried cries of the other dragons; he was searching with his mind for the source of the pain…and touched the fevered, weak mind of Juliana, his beloved Damalit. _"…Virenyr…?"_ The thought was barely coherent, no more than a whisper in his mind.

Even as it faded, he was banking around, sprinting back for the city, where he'd left Juliana, he called out to her, _"Juliana! Juliana, what happened!"_

In response, she could not even form coherent words; a rush of pictures and emotions and feelings flooded into his mind. Flying high, triumphant. Pain in her back. Arrow. Flesh wound…? On the rooftop. Talking, talking. Weaker. Blood trickling down her thigh, her shin, into her boot. Blackness.

He managed to sort out the gist of how she had been wounded, and increased his speed, racing back to the city. This sudden awareness of the wound made sense enough; Juliana had mental defenses, like all Damaliti, to keep things like this – sudden, crippling pain – from touching the mind of their dragon, so that at least one of the pair could function. And Juliana was proud enough, strong enough, to not mention a wound, not wanting to worry him. Among other things. But when she fainted, those defenses came crashing down. And thus he felt as though he himself had been wounded, so strong was her presence in his mind – usually.

But now, after that last press of images, she faded away….he roared again, as if his call could bring her from the brink of death…but it was hopeless. She was so far from him, a gap between their minds, a gap that had never existed, not in his long memory. _"JULIANA!"_

He closed his eyes and dove into the glistening red-white thread that tied her mind to his, now fraying one slender thread at a time. She had turned her back to him, and was walking into the gleaming light of… _"NO! JULIANA! Come back! …Please. Come back… Wait for me…"_ the last was a soft whisper as his wings drove him on to the city, to where Juliana was.

As if in response, she paused at the foot of the long ramp leading into the white portal of death, shoulders set, her back still to him. Then she threw back her head, back arching, and screamed. It cut through his skull even as renewed pain throbbed.

And then she was gone; so far that he could hardly sense her, could just see the two silver stands holding her to this life. If they snapped, the whiplash would kill him, just as it killed Deledia when her dragon died. That was well; he didn't want to live on without Juliana.

But the threads were strong, and seemed to grow stronger as he drew closer to her. He called out to her again, and felt her mind stir, disjointed but _there_, alive. He opened his eyes, and saw the cause of her pain. Humans, natives of this world, crouched around her, holding her still, hands on her wound.

He was beyond reason; they caused her pain beyond that of the original wound. She would have been fine, had they not interfered. Rage clouded his vision, and two strokes of his wings had him soaring over the castle with a roar; he would take his Juliana home, and there she would recover, or die beneath her own sky. And if he caused a little pain and suffering on their part, all the better; they deserved no less. They made her scream. They had almost taken her from him. They would pay.

* * *

Wing-Commander Drake leaned low over his brass-red's neck, urging her faster. He had heard Virenyr's tortured roar, and knew of only one thing that could cause such tones in a dragon, only one thing that could make them turn their back on all their training to rush to their Damalit's side. Something had happened to Juliana. Something bad. Beyond that, he was as much in the dark as any Damaliti. 

He also knew, though, that Virenyr could – and would – tear through an entire army to reach Juliana's side, regardless of their alliance; in his condition, he would put allies on the same side as foes and fight them all.

_Renegade_. Such a dragon was a danger to himself and his rider along with the rest of the world. And Drake knew that not all the power of the Flight – much less the Squadron – could hold Virenyr, such was his raw strength, the very reason he had been elected Flight-Leader turning against them now.

But he was counting that the black-bronze Flight-Leader recognized him and his brass-red Zirella, and would hesitate to attack. It was a feeble hope at best, nonexistent at worst; sick with worry and fear for his Damaliti, it was likely that Virenyr recognized no one.

But Drake had to try; he couldn't allow the dragon Flight-Leader to burn down the _rest_ of the war-torn city in his grief and rage. Besides, Virenyr's rampaging would distract him – and anyone else – from Juliana's wounds, perhaps even causing her death. He couldn't allow that. His grip tightened on Zirella's ridge until she complained, _"Drake, let go! We're coming up on Virenyr; what do you want me to do?"_

"_Do…?"_ The word was quite foreign to him; he had been consumed with abstract thoughts, far too consumed to think ahead.

He could feel the mental roll of her eyes, _"Aye, do. You know, that thing that involves working out a pre-determined plan? Never mind, I know what's what. You just hang on and do as I tell you."_

Fortunately, that was what he usually ended up doing. And usually, he was just fine with it; Zirella was a natural tactician and strategist, thinking up both maneuvers in battle and the long-term advance and retreat of an Army. But when she showed her plan to him, he balked, _"Do you think that I'm an acrobat! I couldn't do that five years ago when I was Juliana's age!"_

"_Drake, shut up and do as I say,"_ her reprimand was mild with distraction, her eyes focused on her quarry, drawing every nearer as he slowed down, seeking out the exact location of his rider…With a glass-trembling roar he dove down,finding her. _"Hold on!"_ Zirella shouted, folding her wings to her side to shoot for the larger bronze-black.

There was nothing for Drake to do but that indeed; hang on and pray his stomach and its contents stayed where it belonged. Zirella was the fastest in the entire Flight – they often won the races that were held in times of peace. Even as Virenyr was still diving for the three figures crouched around the female Damalit, his brass-red halved, then halved again, the distance between them, the male dragon now just a few short dragon-lengths away. She dipped in the air and came up at him from below with a snarl, startling him into flaring, braking in midair.

Drake took advantage of the half-upside down position and did as Zirella had planned; he slid his feet from the stirrups, working them around the heavy metal plates that curved around his legs, and tumbled backwards into thin air, flipping over just once so as to land on his feet, catlike. _"Zirella, be careful,"_ he warned even as he relaxed his legs for the landing.

She was already driving the startled bronze-black backwards, away from the rooftop. _"Don't worry…yet. Worry if you can't save Juliana. If she dies, not even a Flight of Storm Dragons could restrain Virenyr, much less me…"_

Drake flinched, and let himself crumple into a crouch as his feet struck the stones. He took several deep breaths, surprised he had managed the maneuver without breaking his legs, and straightened, surveying the scene before him.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Well, here we go again. I had intended to update sooner, but I got forcably reminded that there are only 24 hours in a day. So now that summer's started, I'm writing more. Now, I'm not sure about the build of tension and the conclusion in this chapter - for that matter, whether it makes sense at all. See, I write several chapters ahead at a time (WitchWolf: all explanations are covered in 7 or 8, so just hold onto that thought...) so by the time I get back to a chapter to post it, it's somewhat like reading someone else's. So tell me what's working, but more importantly, what's not. Onward!

* * *

To Aribeth, things happened too fast. One minute she was chanting, calling on every spell she could think of to try and heal the grave wound, the next the roar startled her out of her concentration, drawing her attention upward…and her breath had died on her lips at the sight of the attacking dragon.

Then a flash of brilliant yellow and scarlet filled her vision, a shrieking battle cry echoing above, countering the deep rumbles of the furious male. And then a male human was standing before her in gleaming crimson and brassy armor…the same color as the scales of his dragon…That made sense, now that she thought of it; an easy way to identify a rider when his dragon was not nearby, like a coat of arms.

She blinked, and realized her thoughts had been rambling. The male dragon rider gave a slight bow towards her, clear blue eyes never leaving hers. "My name is Wing-Commander Drake; I serve Juliana," his voice was low and melodious, calm and confident, "That," his eyes lifted to the figure of the black-bronze, who couldn't quite bring himself to harm the smaller female dragon, "is Virenyr, Juliana's dragon. And my Zirella seeks to keep him from destroying the rest of the city he fought so hard to save."

He shook his head to the elf paladin's confused expression, "There is no time for a full explanation. Suffice it to say that her pain is his as well, and that caused his mind to…temporarily shatter."

She felt her eyebrows arch upwards, "Temporarily shatter?" she couldn't help repeat the words.

Commander Drake's mouth twitched at her tone, almost to a smile. Then his gaze turned down to his Flight-Leader, and he shrugged, "If she recovers, he'll be too busy fussing over her to notice anyone else. But if she dies…" he shook his head, "gods all save us; they'll be the only ones who can."

Great. That was _exactly_ what she needed to hear; she had been afraid that her magic hadn't been strong enough _before_ he told her that. Now…her hands trembled as she laid them once again on either side of the wound – a tremor raced along the bronzed skin of the human female, and there was an answering roar from her dragon.

Aribeth removed her hands, breathing hard. She couldn't do this. Not without causing more pain…that seemed to be all she could do now; just destroy and kill.

"Let me help you."

Her eyes flew open at the male rider's words, already protesting; she did _not_ ask for help!

He silenced her with a glance, "Please. Let me help. She…" he glanced down at her, and his eyes softened, "I will not stand here and watch her die," he whispered.

Her heart went out to him, and at last she nodded in acceptance. "Right," he took a deep breath and turned his attention to Aarin Gend and Lord Nasher, "If you two would please find some other way to help…." he suggested, already moving forward to a position just opposite of Aribeth.

The two exchanged a glance and a shrug, and stood, getting out of the way of the two healers. Drake ran his hand over Juliana's tanned skin, now pale with loss of blood, stroking and soothing as he got his thoughts in order. Aribeth was already chanting, eyes closed, hands pressing the edges of the wound together, trying to slow the flow of blood.

The Damalit closed his eyes, and reached up to tilt her head back, fumbling with her gold circlet…he pressed the top edges around the alexandrite, and peeled away the gold….he heard a soft gasp from one of the two onlookers at the sight of the perfect purple-blue gem embedded into her forehead, but he ignored it. This was no time to offer explanations.

Instead, he rubbed the cool stone, closing his eyes as he groped for her mind in the dark; he touched something, some faint, indistinguishable thought, and grabbed on, following it back into the deepest depths of her thoughts, the core of her being. The same alexandrite stone that bound her mind to her dragon's, when touched, allowed one Damalit to brush the mind of another. In normal circumstances, he would have had to ask her permission before coming into her mind, but these were hardly normal circumstances.

He hesitated a long moment at invading her mind, then shook his head and got down to work. He placed figurative chunks of ice on the places that hurt, convincing her that the worst of the pain was dying, gone; there was no better way to describe what he did. He told her that the pain was gone, and she believed him, convincing herself in turn that she could not feel a thing…

He smiled as he withdrew, leaving the blocks in place; she wouldn't react as strongly now to any prodding of the wound, perhaps allowing Virenyr to calm down a bit, and for them to work unhindered.

He turned his attention to the wound itself, and his hands joined Aribeth's around it, easing the edges together. He licked his lips and closed his eyes, "Stars, Sun, Moon, Sky, Winds, Sea, Earth; Humusare god of dragons; Maris goddess of humans; Reas god of war; Dana goddess of harvest; Xutil god of death; Quet'zal lord of all. Full Wing of my gods, hear my cry in this foreign world…"

He thought that perhaps it was a bit of a long shot; their gods were a plain away, and he was no cleric to boot, but it was worth a try. What else could he do?

He slitted open an eye and glanced down at the wound. It looked smaller, shallower. Certainly, less bloody. But how much good were they really doing? Drake winced, and glanced out to where Zirella and Virenyr still battled….It was very much a one-sided battle, he mused. If Virenyr would apply himself, he could knock Zirella out of the sky…but he couldn't. All he could think of was getting to Juliana's side, and maybe destroying part of the city; there was no room in his mind for battle-tactics, not even to counter Zirella's attacks.

He would try to muscle through the smaller brass-red, and she would stand her ground, nipping and swiping at him, never making contact while forcing him to think twice about continuing forward….She swooped and soared, driving him back over the true center of the city. But of course, the farther he got from Juliana, the harder he tried to break Zirella's defense. In less desperate times, they might have just been showcasing a fanciful aerial battle…but these _were_ desperate times.

Drake turned his light blue gaze from the dragons back to the Flight-Leader, and reapplied himself to his prayers. While he was no cleric or paladin, he knew that the gods might just listen to him regardless… and at least this way, he didn't feel quite so useless, so…so helpless, forced to stand and watch this foreigner try to heal his Flight-Leader, his Juliana.

For a long time, what felt like hours, it seemed as though all his attempts were still in vain; the wound refused to stop bleeding, refused to heal. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, even Juliana couldn't recover from such an injury – her lung had indeed been hit, and now blood was accumulating in the porous tissue…soon, he knew she would start to drown in it.

And despite the block he'd placed on Juliana's mind, Virenyr knew the end was close, too.

He paused in his frantic battle, then his eyes – before clouded with rage and battle-light – cleared, and he sighed, directing his question to Zirella, _"May I…? I want to be at her side. I promise I'll be good."_

She hesitated, not trusting his sudden change, then nodded, _"If you can find a place to fit on the roof."_

He angled his wings, sliding around her, and flared above the battlements, fanning the air with his wings, hind legs questing downward, seeking a stable landing site. Lord Nasher and Aarin Gend got out of his way as the huge black-bronze settled, tail tucked tight around both sets of legs, the picture of dragon elegance…if the saddle perched above his shoulder and wings was not askew and blood-stained to boot, that is.

Equally comfortable walking forward on four legs or on two, he chose to rear onto his haunches and shuffle forward several steps, close to Juliana. He leaned his long neck down, peering over Drake's shoulder, then nudged his Damalit with the tip of his nose, a decided whimper beginning in the back of his throat. From his position looking up, Drake could just see the flat alexandrite stone embedded into to the flat part of his muzzle, just in front of his eyes…the second half of the same stone that was in Juliana's forehead.

"Drake…" Virenyr's true voice, heard rarely by another human, was a soft rumble, choked with emotion. "Drake…enough. Let me take her…take her home. So that we may die beneath our own sky."

"No," his response was instantaneous and venomous.

Virenyr's head was not that of a black dragon, but of a bronze; he did not have the natural ferocity and savagery of a black dragon. And yet now his eyes were hard, so much like the gemstone in his muzzle, decided, "Yes, Drake. It's over. Xutil walks too close; can't you feel him? I never expected it to end like this….but it has. At least let her die – let _me_ die – under our own sky. One last glorious flight; a fitting end."

Drake looked up, then down at the wound…still bleeding, leeching all the color from her skin. In this, Virenyr was right; Death stalked forward, eager to claim another Damalit this day…He sank back on his haunches, ignoring Aribeth's protests, considering this.

After a long, long moment, he flung his head to one side, scrubbing the back of one hand across his eyes. He took a deep breath, and nodded to himself, "Virenyr…let me try one more thing. And if it doesn't….help, then….then fly with grace."

"And you as well, Wing-Commander," Juliana's dragon rumbled, the tradition response to the old farewell.

Drake nodded, only a portion of his attention still at this place. He had glanced over to where Zirella had landed some distance away, just across the small half-courtyard of the front entryway. _"Zirella, what would you say if…?"_

"_Drake I can read your thoughts!"_ she barked, head swinging to face him. _"And I would have already protested if I disagreed."_

"…_Are you sure? I mean…"_

"_Drake…I know how you feel. And I feel the same. Let's do this."_

He closed his eyes, nodding. _"Then…then so mote it be."_ He looked down, and stilled Aribeth's soothing hands, shaking his head, "No. Please…turn her over and support her back; put some gentle pressure on the wound. There's something…" his throat caught, and he dismissed all further attempts at explanation.

Aribeth's brow furled in pure puzzlement, but she did as he ordered, gently turning the Flight-Leader over, one arm on either side of the wound to support her back. A folded cloth was pressed up to the wound, but Drake knew more than anyone that it wouldn't last. He knelt at her side, his eyes drinking their fill of her, one callused hand absently stroking hers.

After only a moment, he leaned forward and brushed his thumb across her alexandrite, then lowered his head, letting his own square-cut emerald make contact with the clear purple-blue stone. He did not know for sure if this action allowed them to communicate mind to mind, or if it was just an ancient gesture, but he lingered over her, pressing all his emotion towards her into her mind – if she could hear it, all well and good. If not, then there was nothing lost and nothing gained.

At last he straightened, then stood, stepping over Juliana's feet to stand before an open part of the roof. He took a moment to come to slow attention: shoulders back, right hand clasping left wrist behind his back, chin up, feet spread wide apart to grant him balance. And then he spoke clearly into the thin air, "Xutil, Lord of Death, I know you are here. I wish to bargain with you."

There was a swirl of black sparks, and then the god of death himself stood before the male Damalit. Despite his conviction, Drake almost took a step backwards; Xutil was almost seven feet tall, clad in ebony-black armor, complete with sweeping spikes on all the joints, from those of the plated gauntlets to shoulders to spikes on the greaves and boots.

The Lord of Death turned his helmeted head, face but a sweeping black mask surmounted by a crown of black spikes, dark pits for eyes glowering out from the full helm. A hissing laugh echoed out of the helm, "It has been many, many long years since someone attempted to bargain with me. Very well, Damalit; what will you offer?"

Drake took a deep breath and stepped forward, conviction blazing in his eyes, "You want a life – namely, hers," he gestured back to Juliana, "But one life is as good as another, isn't it? Take mine."

Whatever the god was expecting to hear, that wasn't it. It seemed as though he raised an eyebrow, digesting this statement. He glanced over to Zirella, and was perhaps comforted by the agreement found in her eyes. Xutil turned back to Drake, "And why should I?"

"Because she is young and does not deserve to die like this. Because she is the Flight-Leader with no chosen successor. Because she is far from her homeland and must not die beneath a foreign sky. Because she would not fight you as she would want." And he would; they both knew that. Juliana would want fight death itself every step of the way, even when it was inevitable.

"That is well and good," Xutil conceded, "But why should _you_ take her place? The same statements can be applied to you just as easily as to her. You have a long life ahead of you, if you back down now. Perhaps her life has run its full course."

"_No_," he denied it without even being sure why. "I offered you a fair trade, Xutil; my life for hers. Take it or leave it."

For a long moment, the black god was silent, weighing the offer. **_"Your offer was not prompted by simple camaraderie, was it?"_** Drake winced as the god's words pounded through his skull, but refused to answer, his eyes narrowing, arms folded over his chest, the picture of a stubborn Damalit. But it was impossible to keep anything from a god. **_"No, of course it wasn't. I am god of many things, Drake of Flight Askew, and that is one of them."_**

Aloud, Xutil continued, "I admire courage; there is little enough of it in the worlds without taking those it manifests in. So mote it be." He waved an arm over both Drake and Juliana, "You have your bargain, Drake of Juliana's Flight Askew: Let the Flight-Leader be healed by my command.

"And as for you…I shall let you live…for a time. But your life is in my hand – I may claim you tomorrow or fifty years from now. Our business is concluded." The armored god nodded, and with a swirl of magic, was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Well, the way I figure, this is going to run about 10-12 chapters. Give or take…five. Witchwolf: glad you loved that last chapter; it was fun to write. Yes, explanations _are_ coming…in time. And yeah, I too hate it when the 'god of death' is a villain: figure most people die in their sleep, so how evil can he be?

And I _know_ there are more people who are reading this…you're out there…somewhere…right? If you like this, drop me a review and tell me so! Or I'll epic it. I swear, I'll epic it – last page count on the last story I epiced: 200 pages, give or take 20. And going. And going…

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Drake let out his breath in a hiss, "That son of a…that insufferable…"

"Cunning of him," everybody whirled around, startled at Styrander's cool words. He and his silver-blue Asorria hovered over the main center of the city….and behind them stretched all five Wings, the drizzle that still fell from the skies rinsing away wet blood on armor and scales alike; Drake hadn't even noticed the weather. "He decides when and how you die anyway, so he just reiterated that fact while healing Juliana."

"I hate it when gods find loopholes," Drake muttered under his breath.

Styrander chuckled, leaning against the pummel of his saddle, "So, all's well that ends well, Drake?"

The tall Damalit walked over to Juliana, kneeling down at Aribeth's side. He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheeks, then sought her pulse in her neck. He couldn't help breathe a sigh of relief at the strong, steady pulse, and then tilted her forward into his arms to check her back….the wound was just a new scar, pink and ridged, dried blood splattered across her back. At last he commented, addressing all sixty-five dragons and Damaliti at once, "She's lost a lot of blood; she'll be weak for a time. But –" he glanced at Virenyr, who nodded confirmation, "But she'll be fine."

A long sigh was pulled from the Damaliti's lips; no one had been aware just how much the death of Juliana would have affected them all. "So," Drake continued as he gathered the unconscious leader into his arms, "you are all here because….?"

Styrander, the ranking Wing-Commander, was the one to give the report, "Mage-scouts reported in; area's clear all around the city for miles. And look!" He pointed to the north.

Drake turned, and grumbled beneath his breath, "Finally! It took them long enough!"

His annoyance was not typical for those on the roof; they gasped, getting to their feet in awe. The Flying Fortress Westeringe had appeared on the horizon, towed by the other two Squadrons of the Flight, or about 165 dragons. The sight was enough to make even Drake's throat close with wonder and – for him, a Damalit – joy.

The Fortress itself was the peak of a mountain shorn from its base and thrown aloft, spells contained in crystals and gems along the flat bottom keeping it on an even keel in the air. But it was the actual dragons of a Flight that powered its flight; ropes attached to the saddles allowed the Fortress to be towed and directed – no easy feat, but nothing the dragons' weren't used to.

But before the peak had been lifted aloft, it had been sculpted with spells; the rugged mountain peak crafted into a series of towers, clustered near the center, flat roofs acting as landing pads for the dragons of the Flight. Scores of floors were then hollowed out in each tower, each floor a single set of rooms; the quarters of a Damalit and his or her dragon…except for the main tower, the one formed out of what had once been the crowning peak of the mountain. There, the bottom levels were used as meeting rooms, classrooms, mess hall, and kitchens and the top levels were the reserved rooms of Wing-Commanders, with the highest suite being the Flight-Leader's…Juliana's….

Of course, the wide base of the towers was still the natural rock, and natural shape, though tunnels for various rooms cut through it – the dungeons, storerooms, wizards' workshops, forge areas – and the area around the towers was flattened into a vast landing area, big enough to hold the entire Flight of dragons at once. The Fortress Westeringe, of Flight Askew…._Home sweet home._ Zirella echoed Drake's sentiment, spreading her wings in offering. He stepped towards her, intending to mount up, when a cleared throat behind him reminded him of the fact that explanations – lots and lots of explanations – were in order.

He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order, tried to plan ahead. Juliana herself foiled his attempts. She squirmed in his arms, naturally refusing to stay unconscious, groaning and twisting – or trying to – into a more comfortable position… After a moment, she opened one eye and glared up at Drake, "I had better not be where I think I am," she snarled.

He winced, just remembering that Juliana never woke up in a good mood, and was always testy when wounded to boot… When no answer was forthcoming, she continued in the same tone, spitting out each word, "Put me down. Now."

Drake couldn't help but arch an eyebrow, "You think you have the strength to stand on your own?"

"I don't care," she hissed, "I refuse to be carried in front of the entire Flight! I am not a helpless female!" When he hesitated one more moment, she barked in true Flight-Leader style, "Commander Drake, I order you to unhand me this instant!"

Drake rolled his eyes, and let her slide out of his arms. She swayed the instant her feet touched the roof, but she brushed off all attempts to help steady her. She happened to glance down, and hissed, "Give me my armor. _NOW._" Under her breath, she added, "And I thought being carried like some damsel in distress was bad…in front of the entire Flight in nothing but my underthings? Worse."

Drake managed to turn his chuckle into a cough, then pressed, "Jul…you're still recovering from the wound, god-healed or not. It's not far to Westeringe, and the skies are clear…" Her glare forced his words back into his throat, and he swallowed, decidedly uncomfortable.

"Commander Drake," she gritted out between clenched teeth, "You are already out of line: don't make it worse. _Armor_."

Muttering under his breath about stubborn females who thought they were immortal, Drake located her discarded breastplate, presenting it to her with a sharp flourish. She never stopped glaring at him as she wiggled into it, yanking the straps tight. She blinked, _"When did this get so tight…and am I _supposed _to be seeing black spots…?"_

"_Juliana," _Virenyr's voice was serious in her mind, _"Drake could be right…"_

"_Don't you start,"_ she grumbled as she shook rainwater out of her eyes, making her way for her dragon's side, focusing on the task of putting one foot in front of the other in a straight line without undue wobbling. It was a relief to grab the saddle-leathers, gripping the girths tight so as to hide her trembling hands. _"Ok. Mount up. Fly to Westeringe. Land. Collapse in bed. Good plan."_

If Virenyr hadn't been so worried, he might have laughed. As it was, Juliana adjusted her grip, resettling the saddle on his back before craning her neck back, one hand each on a loop of leather to either side of the stirrup. In usual circumstances, she would haul herself up into the saddle, but circumstances were hardly normal. _"How in the name of the gods did I ever get up there the first time?"_ she wondered.

"Want a leg-up?" Drake drawled from behind her.

"No," she snapped before she could think – _yes_, she wanted a leg-up! The saddle was some five feet above her head! – "I don't need your help."

Drake sighed and folded his arms over his chest. Juliana ignored him and considered the problem a moment longer. Then she backed off, and got a running start, using the momentum to help drag her first foot into the stirrup. The other followed in short order, and then she was sitting tall and proud atop her dragon…in theory. In reality her head spun from her exertions, the edges of her sight blurry. She reached up to touch her alexandrite stone for reassurance, and then glanced down at Drake. "My circlet?" Her tone was as lofty and as arrogant as any nobles'.

In return he bowed mockingly, stooping to retrieve the gold item in question. "Your circlet," he offered it on the barest tips of his fingers, his tone still a drawl, as it usually was when he was annoyed at her.

She scowled and was forced to lean down, half-way out of the saddle, to retrieve it from his hands. Black and white spots whirled before her sight as she straightened, competing for dominance. She hurried to clasp the two halves about her head, beneath her fiery hair, fastening over the alexandrite stone…it did little good. That wasn't a great surprise; it only helped her to compensate for the differences in air at the various heights. But she could pretend it helped to clear her mind, too. By leaning against and gripping the flexible ridge running down Virenyr's spine, she could keep herself in the saddle without wanting to faint…again.

"_Ok, Virenyr. Any time you're ready."_

He snorted, but knew better than to undermine her when she was _this_ testy. Spreading his wings, he leapt up into the sky, cutting through the drizzle, making his way for the Flying Fortress that glided just over head. Drake's blue eyes were sharp as he watched her go – surely leaning against Virenyr's neck like that wasn't the most stable way to fly…? – before turning his attention back to the stunned natives of this world. He rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Stubborn fool of a….woman!"

A slow grin touched the lips of the big dark man who had remained near the back of the group throughout all the fuss, "Ah, but unless they are stubborn and strong, they're not worth it. Still, you have my…deepest sympathies."

Drake winked, then sighed through his teeth, glancing up at the Fortress and the Flight, and at length winced, "Well, unfortunately, with Juliana out of commission, I'm the ranking officer; I have to be the one to keep the Damaliti on task. In short; your questions are going to have to wait until we get the Fortress settled outside the city. In fact….I'll post a sentry below the Fortress; whenever you're ready, just stop by – I'll leave orders to have you ferried up to the Fortress proper. Then any Damalit can give you directions to my quarters: B-17. Tower B, level 17," he clarified.

Lord Nasher nodded understanding. Drake was just about to add a few more comments about the layout of the Flying Fortress when a distressed scream cut the air. He whirled around, and then barked for Zirella, already running for his brass-red. She sprang into the air even as he was scrambling into the saddle, sprinting for….

His hunch had been accurate, gods curse it. Virenyr's scales had been made wet by the rain, and slick. In her disoriented state, it had been too easy for Juliana's hands to slip, too easy for her weight – focused as it was on her hands and arms – to throw her to the side, out of the saddle…For the first time in many, many long years, Juliana had fallen from her dragon, and from a great height to boot, a scream ripped from her throat as she plummeted for the unforgiving cobblestones.

But Zirella was both fast and agile; in record time she was swooping up from beneath the female Damalit. Her positioning was incredible – Juliana fell neatly into Drake's outstretched arms with a gasp, her breath driven from her. Up above, Virenyr checked his dive, banking around in a slow spiral of acknowledgement; they held her safe, and he would not attempt a mid-air transfer of riders, not in Juliana's current condition.

Drake brushed a strand of her fiery red hair back from her face as he settled her across the pummel of his saddle, Zirella following Virenyr in his spiraling flight. "Now," he asked, tone mild, "wouldn't it have just been easier to have me carry you in the first place? I'm pretty sure it would have been less humiliating then falling in front of the entire Flight…"

"Drake, shut up," rather than being the brusque statement he expected, she seemed to beg him, "I'm dizzy and can't think."

"Blood loss," he meant to be cheerful, mocking, but he didn't have the heart, "Just because the wound healed doesn't mean you don't need to recover." His fingers brushed her temples as he continued, "Please, Jul, you need to rest. I've got you safe enough…Just rest for now. Don't fight. For a change…"

Perhaps it was the use of his pet name for her, or the stress of the day, or the loss of blood, but she slumped down, head lolling against his chest, face still hard and fierce, even in sleep. Or unconsciousness. Either way. He sighed, shifting his grip on her, and nodded up to Virenyr, "Lead the way," he shouted to the larger male dragon.

He dipped his wings in an aerial nod, twisting up through ranks of dragons, sliding through the maze of taut ropes and chains attached to the base of the Fortress in a display of agility only a master flyer could pull off. Drake and Zirella followed, their passenger forcing them to take a less-acrobatic way around.

Those mounted atop the dragons on 'tow duty' glanced up as the flashy brass-red passed, lifting up an arm in a salute when they noticed their Flight-Commander…and there were more than a few chuckles, Drake noted, at her position in his arms. As far as they were concerned, it was about time she settled down with someone, if only a lover…

And if she had heard any of it, he admitted with a wince, heads would quite literally roll; as far as _she_ was concerned, her personal life was none of their business, and that was final. He found himself sighing once more as they soared into the Fortress proper, dodging needle-like towers. Juliana's ferocity and independence was renowned in the Flight, even more so than Virenyr's…It made dealing with her on a personal level – or trying to – a running battle they were both determined to win…

Virenyr coiled around and around the single white tower, cresting around the flat roof, dipping down to flow into the large cave-like mouth – one of the entrances into Juliana's quarters. Drake and Zirella landed with less flair a few seconds behind him in the circular room at the top of the tower, cool stone below the only testament to its mountainous origins. Shadowed and closed, it still resembled a cave, right down to the low half-ceiling covering half of the vast tower-room and the staircase of living rock that had been carved out of the wall, sweeping up to the second floor of the quarters.

The large black-bronze folded his wings at his side, moving out of the way of Zirella as she landed beside him, into the enclosed space below the ceiling. He heaved a smoky yawn, rubbing his head against some of the gemstones embedded in the wall, his hoard. "Drake," he addressed the male Damalit even as he stretched out, cat-like, "Would you mind removing my saddle after you put Juliana to bed? Thank you."

Drake chuckled as he swung down from Zirella's high back, cradling Juliana in his arms; Virenyr's 'request' was more of an order, as usual. Some things didn't change from human to dragon partner. Shifting the armor-clad female to try and redistribute her weight, he ascended up to the second level of the chambers, the Damalit's personal quarters.

Drake was glad that Juliana kept her quarters unfurnished; it was hard enough to carry her up the steps and across the room to her circular nest-like bed without having to worry that he was going to trip over something. As he climbed up the two stone steps leading to the lofted bed, he frowned to himself even as he settled the Flight-Leader against the plumped pillows nestled where dark wood border of the bed met gray stone wall. Tugging the soft down comforter around her, he turned, sinking onto the edge of the wide border around the bed, looking over her room as if seeing it with new eyes.

While the lower part of the cavernous room was dark and shadowed, stone walls closed with the exception of the mouth-like entrance, here windows had been carved from the rock, letting natural light spill into the curved 'room,' if the ceiling extending over half of the main room could be called that.

Next to her bed was a simple armor stand – though he knew that she would wake up stiff after sleeping in her armor, after her reaction a few minutes ago, he didn't dare remove her steel covering. Settled just next to the armor stand was a weapon's rack, snug against the curved wall. A few lethally sharp spears were propped up in their slots, but save for those few, it was empty; she had carried all her weapons into battle this day. And just beyond the weapon's stand was her armoire, half-filled with sensible wool and leather clothing, the top shelves serving double duty as a bookcase, looking as though it could use a good dusting.

No, he realized, the only ornate thing in her room was the rug rolled out on her floor, so soft his booted feet seemed to sink into it up to his ankles. It depicted a deep azure sky, a few fluffy white clouds at the fringed borders, their tops taking on just a hint of gold – the promise of a warm sun on the flyer's back. The sort of sky ever Damalit loved to fly beneath. As Drake stared at it, the light cascading down through the windows seemed to cause the gold threads to shimmer and gleam, the entire scene to move.

He laughed to himself as he climbed down to the lower level; the tension of the day was getting to him; no carpet, no matter how beautiful, made the viewer think that he was flying into an endless blue sky, the clouds scuttling away below him, their tops tinted with the colors of the bright sun.

It was quick work for him to strip off Virenyr's saddle and place it atop its rack, removing the fabled lance from the leather straps holding it close to the stirrup. He tossed the saddle over the half-barrel on a crude stand in the corner of the shadowed cavern and propped the lance up against the wall near the stairs, far from any dragon, letting the Storm Dragon head continue to drip blood onto the stone floor, bidding the black-bronze pleasant dreams as he passed….and warning him to come and get a Wing-Commander if, no, _when_ Juliana woke up and tried to walk. She was still too weak by half, and would undoubtedly hurt herself even more trying to force her beyond her limits.

Virenyr agreed in a heartbeat, and before Drake knew it, he was flying above the Fortress once more, watching the two-hundred dragons of Flight Askew guide it through the air with tugs on tough ropes. Scouts flitted back and forth between the Fortress and the chosen Anchor site – ironically, right above the former camp of Luskan's troops, now in flames – reporting on the distance between the two sites…

Drake gave the order, and the Flight began angling the Fortress downward, lowering it to a more manageable air-level; forcing its spires to scrape the clouds was fine for distance flying, but for living? A lower altitude was needed.

In no time at all, weighted lines had been thrown out from the lowest levels of the Fortress, secured to the trunks of thick trees, primarily to keep the Fortress from drifting too far via winds. And then the Flight withdrew to the Fortress to lick wounds gained from battle, sulk because they _missed_ the battle, and wait for the Flight-Leader to recover….

And thus the two heroes from the two parallel worlds slept; the Hero of Neverwinter – as the ranger Saima would come to be called – and Flight-Leader Juliana, Damalit: Rider of Dragons. Their strength – physical and mental – had been tested to the limits this day, and the strength of their comrades as well…And all had passed through the forge, scathed by fire but stronger for the experience.

Rest was the order of the day: a long-deserved, healing, cleansing rest. Much work awaited them in the future in rebuilding the fallen city and finding their way back home, but Neverwinter and Flight Askew could live without their heroes for a time.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Wow, it's been awhile since I updated…I wanted to make sure I kept various characters _in_ _character_ with their comments and such, and that took time. As you can no doubt tell. Hope I didn't scare anyone off back there, but much thanks to myreviewers: WitchWolf for continuing to review every chapter! Hope you think this one is just as good; everything about the Damaliti gets explained, and if it doesn't…ask.

And a big Thank You to the new person, Zazei! Yes, I have a list now! And yes, I did have an original story all plotted out for the Damaliti…then it twisted on me so many times that I gave up in frustration. But I couldn't resist a chance to put the characters into a story, and well…Neverwinter Nights was convenient.

On with the chapter!

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In the end, three days passed before the city quieted down enough before Aarin Gend was free to visit the draconic mercenaries. In the few calm moments after the breaking of the siege, his thoughts had often turned to them, those mystical warriors, trying to puzzle them out. And yet all he had succeeded in doing was laying out what he already knew, over and over again: 

They were from a different plane of existence, one that – from the sounds of it – ran parallel to his, so that a direct portal could be opened between them. They were somehow connected, bonded, to the dragons they rode, perhaps by the gemstones embedded in their forehead. They were fierce fighters, but not immortal; he would never forget the black smoke rising from the funeral pyre for their fallen comrade, dragon and human burned together, ashes mingling. They were arranged in Flights commanded by a Flight-Leader, each Flight with its own Flying Fortress, with about two hundred dragons in a Flight. Their dragons were two-colored, and seemed to usually be a chromatic and metallic color, and the color of their armor matched the color of their dragon's scales.

Precious little, when all was said and done. He would know everything about these strange mercenaries who had come out of an empty sky to fight alongside his soldiers.

And so, about four days after the last Luskan soldier surrendered, he made his way out to the ashy field that had once been the camp of the invaders; the Fortress now looming over it, casting ominous shadows. He stopped right at the edge of the shadows; he was wary of the large green-copper resting on her haunches next to one of the many ropes holding the Fortress steady, though he knew the mercenaries to be friendly. Or at least, not hostile.

Atop her back was a stocky man in what Aarin was coming to know as typical armor for these draconic mercenaries. However, he wore a visor-less winged helm, the first Aarin had seen on a Damalit, several strands of dark brown hair curling forward into his face and eyes. A brass bugle rested on his hip, its leather cord crossing his back and chest, one hand always straying close to it even as he surveyed the lands before him.

It took a moment for the Damalit to notice the human, but when he did, he stood up in his stirrups and saluted him by thrusting his spear in the air. "Hail to you! Have you come to speak with Wing-Commander Drake?"

Aarin Gend nodded as he approached the younger man. The dragon's huge coal-red eyes narrowed as he stepped up to her side, and she lifted up one huge foreleg, flexing the four black claws. The Damalit laid his hand on her neck scales, whispering something. She snorted smoke, but lowered her claws. The sentry shrugged, "She rarely tolerates anyone beyond me…makes flying in a Wing interesting….Anyways, grab hold of that strap near the stirrup and don't let go, plant one foot atop the girth…and up we go."

The copper-green's wings snapped open, and Aarin was subject to the dubiously pleasurable experience of a dragon's flight. Clinging to the leather straps of the saddle, he watched the ground fall away from him, one wing-beat at a time. He glanced up just in time to see the flattened base of the mountain filling the sky, and then the female dragon was soaring up through a…a well of air, an open area in the 'floor' of the Flying Fortress in the huge courtyard surrounding the towers. With a slight flutter of her copper-edged wings, she landed next to the wall surrounding the hole in the 'ground,' setting Aarin on his feet.

Looking around, the Spymaster of Neverwinter had to hide his shock at the similarities of the Fortress to his own City's Core. Below foot were gray flag stones…no, he realized with a smile; the stones of the entire open area had been carved to _resemble_ cobblestones, but were part of the mountain still. He had not been prepared for just how _big_ a space the area around the center cluster of towers really was, or how open. A road wound between the towers – more a series of gaps between the towers than any real pathway.

Noting that Aarin was staring at his surroundings, the sentry launched into a description of the Fortress, "This is the Plazia, known officially as Level-A. It surrounds the towers and acts as the Flight's gathering place. Four roads lead to the Inner Circle that surrounds Tower-B, the largest one. They are spaced evenly and are named after our four main gods: Via del Stella, Via del Luna, Via del Solis, and Via del Aethra."

Aarin blinked. The words were foreign to his ears, even after all his years of wandering and speaking with spies from foreign cities. Even so, there was something inherently soothing about the lilt of the words, the way they rolled and slide from the sentry's tongue. After a moment, no doubt noting his confusion, the younger male translated, "Road of Stars, Moon, Sun, and Sky."

He nodded; it made sense for a group so depended on flight and the heavens to worship the celestial bodies and the sky itself. The sentry pointed towards the base of the largest tower, "Drake's quarters are in Tower-B, seventeen flights of stairs straight up. Can't miss 'em." He saluted, and his copper-green leapt into the air, hooking around to dive headfirst through the well with a rush of wings.

There was nothing for it but to start walking….and climbing, for that matter. Two hours later, the Spymaster of Neverwinter leaned against the curved wall of the circular stairs and reflected that it had _really_ been a long time since he had been active. A short jog up a tower had never bothered him _before_ he settled down to ferret out plot for Lord Nasher…He glanced at the number on the small door on the landing, and regretted it; he was only on level ten.

It took another half-hour for him to drag himself up the last seven flights of stairs, and he was winded by the time he rapped on the plain wooden door. It took a moment for it to be opened by Wing-Commander Drake, his light blue eyes wary until he recognized his visitor. Then he bowed, stepping back from the threshold, silently inviting the Spymaster in even as he remarked, "I was worried that it was another scout with bad news…"

Aarin Gend arched an eyebrow, his natural affinity for finding information kicking in over his gasps for air, "Bad news? Of what sort?"

Drake waved off his concern as he gestured up the sweeping staircase up to the second level of his quarters, "Damalit business." He considered, then left it at that. "That's besides the fact that Juliana…well, she's gotten it into her head to try and walk about. I had to threaten to tie her down. And if she tries to move out of the bed again," he couldn't stop his back teeth from grinding together at the thought of it, "I'll make good on the threat and better."

Drake shook his head to clear his thoughts as he strode up the last few steps, flinching at the perpetual mess that greeted him – Juliana may have thought that an officer needed their quarters to be painfully bare, but he sure as hell didn't. He had to move a harp off the better of the two chairs, courteously offering to his guest. He ran his fingers over the strings in thought as he took his own seat across the small table from Aarin, "But never-mind my troubles. You came here for explanations, and I intend to give them to you. So. Ask."

Aarin Gend had debated this first question from the moment he began climbing, and by now, had decided to begin at the literal beginning. "What world or plane are you from?"

Drake winced, leaning back, "How can you name a plane? We call our home Oceana, and perhaps that name applies to the plane as well as the land upon – generally speaking – which we dwell I don't know. I can't even say for sure that it _is_ a different plane; the portal can be opened between two separate worlds as easily as two planes…." Closing his eyes, he began. He spoke of his home in bardic tones, painting a picture with words alone for this foreigner. Even as he described, his fingers moved over the strings of his harp, a whisper of a haunting melody underscoring his words.

He told of the vast oceans of the world, covering much of the planet, the deep blue-green seas reflecting the glorious skies above. He spoke lovingly of the circular archipelagos of volcanic islands that dotted the ocean, many long since cool and dead, others still hot and active, the seas between the islands shallower, pale blue, bright coral reefs extending out from the shores of the islands. It was there that the Armies of Damalit made their official home, there where their Fortresses gathered when they were not busy being the mercenaries they were.

He spoke of the main continent, and how it was quartered by mountain ranges running from shore to shore, one north to south and one east to west. "So beautiful," he mused, fingers still straying over the strings in militaristic melodies, "We are always on the continent – with one kingdom in each quarter, all hating the others, demand for dragon mercenaries is high – but I have always loved those mountains. The Shoulders of the Sky. The Roof of the World. There are no passes between them; a dragon must fly high above the clouds, into the cold, sweet air, the thin air of the mountains, to cross."

"Thin air?" Aarin hated to interrupt, but he had never heard that term before, and it seemed to be one the Damalit threw around quite often.

"Of course. You have noticed that you tire easier here in our Flying Fortress than on the ground, yes? As one ascends, the air becomes thinner, and colder, so that you take in less air when you breathe. When we soar above the peaks at night and Zirella can barely stay aloft because there is nothing for her wings to beat against and it is so cold your breath hangs in front of you, almost solid, and the stars are as bright as crystal shards above and it is so silent you can almost hear their silvery song arching above you, sweet and clear as the air around you…"

His fingers stroked out an ethereal cord that shivered in the air, "It makes you believe that you've passed through a planer gate into another world, so still and…removed. Maybe it's the lack of air, but you feel so free; just you, your dragon, and the sky…I consider it a religious experience of the highest order.

"And then…then you plummet to earth because your dragon's so desperate to breathe and can't stand to carry you through the thin air one second longer; at those altitudes, it's all a dragon can do to keep themselves, their rider, and any gear aloft. And as you fall, the air heats fast, so fast that spark fly from your dragon's chilled scales and you look…oh, you look like a comet falling to earth."

"How many Armies of Damaliti are there?" Aarin asked after a moment's pause, unable to truly comprehend what it was like to soar so high but able to appreciate it, just from Drake's description of it.

"Five," Drake explained with a smile, "Creatively named the First, Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth Armies. Flight Askew with the First Army under command of High General Dachgon. All told, there are…" he frowned, thinking and counting on his fingers, "Yes, there are eight Flights in the First, or about 1,600 Damaliti, and about 200 more support staff, who are not bound to a dragon."

"Is that number average?" Aarin snapped the question without thinking about it, aligning more information in his mind, forgetting that these were planers that he was dealing with, not a rival city that they might need to face in battle one day.

"No. It's extraordinary. The Second though Fourth Armies have about six Flights each; 1,200 Damaliti. Fifth Army, however, was decimated in the last Sun War, and so declared themselves to be neutral messengers, carrying packages across the mountains for the four countries, and messages from one Army to another. Pity. They had some fine warriors.…" he mused.

"And what, precisely, is a Sun War?"

Drake stretched his long legs out in front of him and resettled the harp, "That will take some explaining. Forgive me if I ramble. For five years, the Armies of Damaliti hire themselves out to the various countries to fight in the squabbles against the other countries – usually to counter the Army the rival country in question has hired. But there is a strict law between us: no dragon or Damalit is killed. Not even one. A victory is declared when they are driven to the earth or far from the battleground, or when their standard is captured. For their purpose – and ours – is to harass the earth-bound army with weaponry and fire. If we are stopped from that, we lose.

"But the fifth year, regular as clockwork, the sun will dawn red. And the Damaliti go to war against each other. We fight under the red sun, until the earth below is red with blood and strewn with corpses. We fight for two years, and the Army that comes out the strongest will be the one approached by the human countries first, the one offered the best wages, the one that keeps the other Armies in line, even so far as to demand tribute from them."

"Horrible," Aarin whispered.

"Yes," Drake agreed. "But necessary. It keeps all Five – well, Four, now – Armies equal; even the strongest lose so many Damaliti in the Sun Wars that they don't dare antagonize the others too much. It keeps the balance of power shifting from Army to Army, forcing everyone to keep striving – like a monarch that stays in power too long, an Army in power too long will inevitably stagnate, and be overthrown.

"And…it keeps the dragon population from growing out of control. Because so few of us are killed in the years between and because we are generally long-lived…deaths have to occur somehow. One war's as good as another."

Aarin shivered in spite of himself. Despite the rationality of it… "That doesn't change the fact that it is horrid."

Drake nodded, eyes taking a far-away look, "We all lose friends and loved ones to it, and often great commanders and fighters as well. But what's horrible is when below-ground alliances are formed and two or three Armies attack the fourth…then it's a massacre, no matter what anyone says. I hate politics just for that reason." He sighed, looking down at his gold-plated harp, "And I fear that's what will happen to the First in two years; we're so large and powerful that we are making enemies of the other three fighting Armies, even by doing nothing. If they decide to turn on us all at once…

"I've seen entire Squadrons, entire _Flights_, killed during those huge battles of three Armies all against the fourth. It's bad enough when all four armies will fight in a single battle and you have to fight four very different opponents at once, but at least they are fighting each other as well as you. But to try and fend off three dragons attacking you at once…." He shuddered and blew through his first two fingers, then ran his hand, two fingers outstretched, from hair line down to navel. "Sign of the Dragon," he explained, grinning at Aarin's look of confusion, "wards off bad luck. Enough of that talk. What else do you have for me?"

"How did you get here? Juliana mentioned a god and opening a gate between the planes, but it was…confusing."

"If she was talking while she was wounded I don't doubt that it was," Drake muttered under his breath. "However, because I wasn't privy to the conversations that she was, I'm little better; all I know is common knowledge or gossip. What I can say is that the Sly One – Morag, I think you called her – had been sending raiders against our world, and we, the Damaliti, the ones called to fight them, grew…annoyed.

"Then several of the clerics in our Army – the First – had a dream of a strange god. He said that on a particular day the Sly One would open a portal, and we could hold it open, so that we could send fighters through to strike a decisive blow against her forces. Then he explained how we could make such a thing, and that was it.

"So all the Flight-Leaders got together with the General and discussed it, and decided that there was no harm in doing as the god suggested. So the mages – what we call wizards, sorry – constructed the platform that would stabilize the portal, with crystals all around holding the power needed for such a working. The kept watch, and when the portal opened, they did some great magical working a wizard could explain but I can't, and the portal, instead of closing once the Sly one was done with it, was held open.

"However, for safety's sake, they removed one of the crystals from the base, so that the portal closed, but remained present. Then I guess the Flights drew lots or something, and Flight Askew was chosen to go through the portal to fight whatever the Sly One's forces were. They reopened the portal, Juliana's Squadron flew through ahead of the rest of the Flight, who had to figure out how to drag the Fortress through and, well…you know the rest."

Aarin nodded; made sense enough. He cleared his throat, wishing he had thought to bring paper to take notes on, and contemplated his next question, "When Juliana was wounded, you said that Virenyr lost his mind? Because – and I'm speculating now – the bond was fading?" When Drake nodded confirmation of the spymaster's suspicions, Aarin took a deep breath and asked, "Just what sort of bond _is _between a dragon and their rider, then?"

"That, I can answer readily." Drake leaned forward, "In olden times, the first bonds – the only bonds – were formed when a dragon was born at the same moment as a human, with the two mothers being within feet of each other…a rare enough occurrence. Still is – though nowadays, with rider's dragons mating when they sense a pregnancy, it's gotten more common.

"Anyways, that lays the framework for the bond – an initial connection, you might say. Allows the minds to touch. And for those Damaliti of old, it was enough. But now, we have found a way to…strengthen the bond. A few days after the birth, both wyrmling and child are brought to a temple. There, a few drops of blood from each of them are spilled onto a precious stone, and a powerful divine spell is cast, splitting the gem in two and embedding one half in each of their foreheads – like my emerald, for example. The gem…magnifies thoughts. Allows words and images and emotions to pass easier from human to dragon and vice-versa. It is as if their very souls are joined; one could not harm, betray, or forsake the other."

Aarin was about to ask another question when a rush of wings drew his attention down to the open cave below…where the great black-bronze Virenyr was landing, tucking in his wings to leave enough space for Zirella. He reared back, head snaking up through the open space so that he could look Drake in the eye…but the Damalit was already moving. "Don't tell me, let me guess," the male human muttered as he placed the harp down on the chair and began to move for the steps, "Juliana."

Virenyr nodded, "Again. She won't listen to me."

"That's a first," Drake mused.

A ghostly smile flicked across Virenyr's muzzle – or at least, Aarin _assumed_ it was a smile – "Not really."

Drake grunted, moving around to Zirella's side. She arched a wing and lifted a front leg, and he threw a soft pad over her back, buckling the long leather girth and adjusting the leather straps for stirrups of the rudimentary saddle. After checking the heavy steel buckle, he turned back to Gend with a theatrical sigh, "Duty calls; we'll have to pick up this talk later. Virenyr, would you be so kind as to ferry our guest back down to the city?"

The black-bronze studied the non-Damalit a moment, then nodded, "Very well. Throw a saddle or something over my back before you go – I doubt he could." The last was muttered, but as a dragon's voice was not made to speak softly, Aarin heard every word.

Drake snorted, but threw a similar harness over Virenyr's shoulders, fastening the heavy buckles, giving a quick explanation of the process as he did so. "The saddle sits right in front of the wings – easier flight that way. Buckles run around the base of the neck and below the belly, connected with a strap – this one – running up the chest. The leather is ridged, trained to sheath the scales. It makes it less likely to slide or slip off. Done…You'd better drop into the saddle from above…There. Feet in the leather loops, hold the ridge in front of you and don't try to steer. Virenyr…give him a smooth ride. No dives – he doesn't have a circlet."

Somehow, the thought of steering hadn't even occurred to Aarin. He supposed he was more concerned with not falling. As if sensing his thought, Virenyr twisted his head around on his long neck so he could face him and snorted, "Relax! I have never lost a rider…well, a conscious rider."

The memory of Juliana's fall was still fresh in Aarin's mind as the dragon's huge wings snapped open, filling with wind even as the male stepped towards the opening in the tower. He felt his heart stop as beneath him, the great dragon's muscles bunched, then with a rush, they were shooting out of the tower. The fact that Virenyr allowed himself to plummet for several feet before giving a lazy beat of his wings to send them spiraling up above the towers probably didn't help alleviate his fears. _Focus_, he told himself, even as he admitted that this was not the best idea he'd ever agreed to.

He glanced down, admiring the pattern of towers in the Flying Fortress…then they passed over the boundary of the Damalit "city," and he was forced to close his eyes with a hard gulp. The sight of the fields surrounding Neverwinter spread out like several rumpled handkerchiefs, trees looking to be no larger than his hand melding together to form the dark forest to the west, made him nauseous.

_How, oh how, do the Damaliti stand it?_ He wondered. There was such a thing as flying too high…wait…what was it that Drake said? That he enjoyed soaring over mountain peaks that were taller than anything on this world? He glanced up, and was reassured by the sight of the fluffy white clouds high above his head – he felt lightheaded enough, _without_ experiencing what even a Damalit would call 'a high flight.' He closed his eyes once more as a Wing of thirteen dragons shot across his sight, physically making his point – as far as the Damaliti were concerned: the higher, the better.

"Where?" Virenyr barked as he flared, hovering over the city of Neverwinter.

Aarin was fascinated at the way the city spread out like a map beneath him, the damaged areas – not that there were any areas that _weren't_ damaged – easily visible. When the dragon repeated the question, louder, Aarin scanned the city, trying to figure out where the dragon could land… "Blacklake District," he shouted, pointing.

Virenyr nodded, "I'll drop you off," he shouted, and banked so sharply Aarin feared the dragon had meant literally. But the dragon had been flying all his life, and knew his craft – in moments he was flaring, his wings creating a wind as he descended vertically. Aarin felt the dragon's hind legs quest downward, seeking the first touch of claw against stone… "There," the dragon Flight-Leader grunted, sinking down onto all fours, flowing down after the leg that had touched first, going so far as to crouch low to the ground.

Aarin was grateful – the dragon's shoulder was generally ten feet or more above the ground, higher than some buildings in Neverwinter. Perhaps a Damalit could leap to the ground without shattering both their legs, but Aarin doubted that he could. He fumbled getting his feet out of the stirrups, and nearly landed up on his backside trying to dismount, but he managed.

The great black-bronze studied him for a long, long minute, then nodded to himself. "Well," he grunted, "You aren't a bad sort, for a foreigner."

"By my estimation, it is you who are the foreigner, not I," Aarin couldn't help but point out.

"You are not a Damalit; thus, you are a foreigner," the dragon explained bluntly…but a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Still, you aren't bad. Honor to you, Aarin of Flight Neverwinter." Rearing back on his haunches, Virenyr spread his wings in salute, then leapt into the clear blue sky.

"Dragons."

Aarin whirled in surprise at Saima's flat voice. The ranger stood some distance away from him, arms folded defensively over her chest, eyes on the great black-bronze. "You never said the mercenaries were dragons."

He shook his head, "No. But does it matter?"

She turned her head to look at him, eyes shielded and wary, "I _hate_ dragons. When are they leaving?"

"I don't know." He considered, then offered, "I suppose as soon as they're able."

Wordlessly, Saima turned her back on him and the dragon, recoiling away. "Fine. Just…fine. Keep them away from me." Shoulders stiff, she walked away, leaving Aarin staring after her – he had never thought that his Hero was afraid of nothing. But she was afraid of dragons. Shaking his head to himself, he hurried after her; there was nothing he could really do, but that didn't stop him from wanting to be at her side.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Well, the good news is that this chapter was reletively easy to write, compared to some. And the further good news is that I've got a good start into the next chapter and I actually know how I want to end this now. The bad news is that I'm not sure how much time I'm going to get to write over the next few weeks, as school has started up again. Joy.

To WitchWolf: Twists with Saima not liking dragons? Well...let's just say Yes, and You'll see, and let's leave it at that, shall we?

Forward!

* * *

Drake took the steps up to Juliana's personal quarters two at a time. Zirella was not content to wait below, but threaded her head up, rearing back on her haunches, wings spread for balance, peering into the human's level of the floor. Drake paused at the top step, eyes narrowed at the sight of his Flight-Leader leaning against a spear in the center of her room, panting with exertion, but a determined flare in her emerald eyes.

"No," she snapped as soon as she saw him. "No, no, and no. It's been four days; if I don't start moving now, I'll go crazy! What good Flight-Leader stays aloof from their Flight for _four days_! And if I don't start working on getting my strength up, it'll take _forever_ to be as good as I once was! And–"

Drake rode out her rant, letting her words wash over him like waves over a rock. She had several points, most of them fair ones, but she still overestimated herself and her ability to recover. He waited until she fell silent, then moved forward and laid a hand on the shaft of the spear, "Jul, if you do too much too fast, you'll make the wound worse than it already is."

"It's healed," she snapped.

"Not quite," he argued softly, "The physical wound, yes. But the effects of it – blood loss and pain and internal damage like all the blood that pooled in your lung – are still healing."

She opened her mouth to protest, but it was– to be dramatic about it – already too late. Zirella had taken advantage of the fact that the Flight-Leader was focused on Drake and his grip on her spear; she lunged upwards, snaking her long neck up over the small dividing wall, teeth snapping into the back of Juliana's plain tunic. Even the smallest of dragons was more than a match for human strength – Juliana was literally thrown back onto the soft pillows ringing her nest-like bed. "Hey!"

"You were being stubborn," Zirella said simply, head vanishing back below.

Juliana was shocked into silence for a long minute – no, Drake amended, recognizing the distraction in her green eyes, her attention focusing inward once more; she was engaged in a long debate with Virenyr. And from the way her mouth settled into an angry slash, he was refusing to do whatever it was she wanted him to do. _Probably refusing to pull rank on Zirella…and refusing to back her in these exertions,_ he added when her scowl deepened.

He wanted to laugh in spite of himself; he liked watching Juliana's anger – it was like watching a dangerous fire. So damn beautiful, but so dangerous, even to onlookers. With that thought paramount – she would not soon forgive him or his dragon for foiling her plans – he stepped forward and held up what she'd no doubted been missing; the bracers that linked her to her Wing and to her Wing-Commanders. "Behave and I'll give you these. And I'll show you the maps we're making. And give you the most recent reports."

It was like holding a ruby in front of a dragon; Juliana's head bobbed up and down, eyes fixed on her 'missing' bracers. "Drake, give."

"Promise to stay in bed until the healers say you can move about," he demanded, holding the gemmed leather bracers above her head.

"Promise. Give!"

_The promise of a bribed dragon,_ Drake thought wirily as he tossed first one, then the other, into her lap. Quick as a flash, she had them around her forearms, rubbing the circle of gems around the main crystal. Touch a gem, and she could communicate with the corresponding Damalit _without_ sending a scout to find them and relay a message. Touch the main white crystal in the center of the circle, and she could address all the Wing-Commanders at once, or the rest of her personal Wing. "Satisfied?" he asked aloud.

"Well," she considered with a sly glance, "it's a start. Now if you'll only take me down to the mess hall so I can see _everyone_…"

He shook his head, sending out a mental call to Zirella, _"Go and fetch those maps; Styrander should have them, and he's off-duty now."_

With a nod and a sudden rush of wind, the brass-red threw herself out of Juliana's quarters. At the top of the central tower, with all the Wing-Commanders being housed in the lower levels, it was the work of a moment to dive down to Styrander's level and loop into his quarters to request the maps.

Drake could feel her progress down, and wandered over to Juliana's bed, taking a seat on the polished dark wood boarder that ran around the nest-bed, careful to keep his tone strictly professional, a Wing-Commander to his Flight-Leader. "We've been mapping the surrounding countryside, and the city itself, so that the scouts can mark the location of any renegades they find, rather than describing the area in their report and hoping their Wing-Commander makes sense of it." He frowned as he added, "We asked, but there were no maps of the city to be had…or the surrounding area. Something about them being a security risk."

"So cartographers don't do well in this city," Juliana shrugged, "And it gives our bards and scouts something to do. What's the point?"

"The point," Drake explained gently, "is that there's no reason whatsoever for there _not_ to be maps; it might take a spy longer to map the city than just to buy a map, but they'd still do it. There's no way around it – wouldn't it be better to _know_ what your enemies see of your city?"

"Yes?" Juliana guessed.

Drake chuckled, "Yes," he agreed, then sobered, "The point is that it is a frightened man who takes such precautions; frightened for his city."

Her brow furled in thought. "Lord Nasher? But he seemed…when I met him…"

"You were half-delirious with loss of blood and pain," Drake pointed out. "And as I was busy saving your skin and making a deal with Xutil-"

"Deal? Xutil? What deal?"

Drake swore under his breath, cursing his forgetfulness – he hadn't _intended_ for Juliana to find out about his 'bargain' with the god of death – and waved it away, "It doesn't matter-"

"It does to me!"

"No, it doesn't," he insisted firmly. "Nothing came of it, not really. Anyways, as I was otherwise occupied – and I _don't_ mean that like it sounds, so stop smirking – I didn't get a firm impression of him either. Still, if he is paranoid enough not to want _maps_…"

"We don't know how else he'll react," Juliana caught on, nodding. Then she shrugged, wrapping her huge quilt around her as she leaned back on her pillows, "But what's the point? Why should _we_ have to worry about a nervous old leader? We'll be gone in a few days…"

"If our luck holds," Drake pointed out. "It might not. We could be stuck here…"

Juliana shuddered in horror, "Don't even think it."

Drake was spared from having to continue in that vein by the arrival of the maps. Zirella held them gently in her mouth, so that she could just rear back, head snaking above the wall again, and spit them in Drake's general direction. The male Damalit couldn't help but be impressed – the maps were a bit crinkled from being in a dragon's mouth, but other than that, they were fine. He didn't know that Zirella _could_ carry something so gently.

He picked them up from where they'd landed and unrolled them flat against the border of the bed, using one of Juliana's pauldrons – someone had obviously helped her out of her armor sometime after he'd left her – to weigh down each curling edge. He gestured to the green border of the great forest, "The scouts have found several isolated remnants of the Luskan army…"

Zirella waited a moment more to see if she would be called on to fetch something else, watching the humans put their heads together over the map, her own dark-haired Drake pointing out the red dots that signified a unit of the defeated army that still was able to fight. Virenyr's copper-headed Juliana leaned closer, sharp emerald eyes jumping from red point to red point, her alexandrite stone almost flashing in the gold of her circlet with thought. Anyone walking in on them would see Wing-Commander and Flight-Leader pouring over a map, debating strategy for dealing with the few remaining troublemakers.

With a mental sigh, she opened her wings and cast herself out of the tower once more. Two sweeping flaps, and she was hovering in front of the flat roof of the tower, glaring at Virenyr, who was sunning himself. "Move over," she ordered; the roof was just as big as the quarters below, with plenty of room for two dragons.

He opened one red eye, "I kicked Asorria off the roof for this? I out-rank you."

Zirella glanced down at the silver-blue, sulking on a lower tower, then back to Virenyr, "That's your problem. I'm older than you are. Move over."

Grumbling, Virenyr did as he was told and shifted over, giving Zirella just enough room to land next to him. For a long minute, there was only the sound of rasping scales as the two dragons resettled themselves in the warmth of the sun. Then Virenyr asked, "They're talking?"

"You know as well as I do that it's just strategy and where we've found enemies and _business_," Zirella drawled without opening her eyes.

"Damn it."

"Yes," she agreed. "And if left to themselves, they'd never move _beyond_ business."

Virenyr opened one eye, " 'If left to themselves?' " he quoted back.

Zirella smiled, "But of course. You didn't think I would, did you?"

"No," he admitted. "You never know when to leave well enough alone."

She preened, "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

Zirella ignored the younger black-bronze's mutter with royal disdain. "All it'll take is a little nudge, anyways," she mused.

Virenyr snorted, "Perhaps on your end, but it'll take a great leap of faith for Juliana."

"And you're not going to help, are you?"

"I wouldn't manipulate her like that. Besides, I _can't_; Juliana's too hard-headed to listen to gentle persuasion, demands, advice, or any other opinion that goes contrary to her own."

The female dragon was quiet for a long minute, contemplating this. Oh, she knew Virenyr was right, but it _did_ throw a crimp into things. A big one. "Well…let's just hope she takes that leap of faith, hm?"

He lifted his head, "What are you talking about?"

"When Drake kisses her," she explained patiently, "you say it'll take a leap of faith for Juliana not to kill him."

On the tower below, Asorria heard and reared back to throw in her own comments, "Drake kiss Juliana? The stars are more likely to shine purple in an orange sky!"

Zirella's eyes narrowed, "Would you like to stake a wager on that?"

"My best emerald against," she confirmed, "It'll never happen."

Wing-Commander Zacho's copper-blue Yenetha was on another roof close by; close enough to hear the wager. She lifted up her head, "Drake and Juliana? Not killing each other or being so damn formal? Yeah, I'd bet on it; three rubies."

"Optimist," Asorria sneered.

"We live in hope."

From there, word spread dragon by dragon; there was a betting pool opened – and one every dragon had an acute interest in to boot. They adored their Flight-Leader; they just thought she didn't get out enough. Bets were being shouted from the various rooftops and relayed from entire Wings through the gems.

It was a symbol of just how well the Damaliti know about their dragons – in a few seconds, riders had figured out why every dragon was shouting to Zirella, though the dragons spoke their native Draconic, and were getting in on the bet. And it was a symbol of just how _sneaky_ the entire Flight could be if they put their mind to it; neither Virenyr nor Zirella spoke to their respective Damalit, and the other Damalit took their cues from the orchestraters of the bet, keeping the 'interested parties' in the dark.

"What've we got?" Virenyr yawned about an hour later.

She rattled off a selection of choice gemstones, gold pieces, weapons and armor both magical and mundane, and various expensive trinkets. Virenyr whistled, "How do you _remember_ it all?"

"It's a knack." Zirella glanced up, then snorted, spreading her wings, "And unless I miss my guess, here comes our sentry with a problem. You'd better get ready."

Virenyr studied the copper-green dragon flying for the Fortress a moment, noting the tiny figure clinging to the stirrup girths and the leg of the Damalit, then heaved a sigh, spread his wings, and leapt off the tower, diving down a level and twisting through the entrance to land in his quarters. He could still hear Drake's voice murmuring above, with Juliana's crisp interjections. _At least they're talking_, he reminded himself as he lifted the leathery saddle off its rack with two delicate claws, slinging it over his back – while he couldn't fasten the girths beneath him, he could at least get it positioned.

He saw Zirella dive past his cave, wings tight to her sides. And then the copper-green sentry flared into his quarters, the passenger throwing herself for solid ground as soon as she could manage. Her hands trembled as she smoothed down her dark green shirt, eyes darting from the copper-green female to Virenyr and back, trying to keep both dragons in her sight even as she bolted for the stone staircase. Even as she was ascending to Juliana's quarters, the sentry saluted his dragon Flight-Leader and headed back to his post. Not a minute later, Virenyr heard voices from above.

Juliana's was first, "Who are you?"

The stranger's voice shook as she began, and so she cut herself off to take a deep breath, resuming only when she had gotten herself under control. Virenyr's estimation of her rose several notches. "My name is Saima. Saima Redralla. I've come to ask a favor of you, Wing-Commander Drake and Flight-Leader Juliana of Flight Askew."

"A favor?" Drake did the prompting when the ranger hesitated.

"It's urgent. I beg of you…" she swallowed again, steadying her voice, "Lord Nasher has decided to execute Aribeth de Tylmarande. And she goes to her death as meek as a lamb; she's stopped fighting."

"You want us to stop this? Why?" Juliana's voice was hard, the voice of a veteran mercenary; so many who dealt with her saw her as a young human female and not as the Flight-Leader she was until it was too late.

"It's not her fault!" Saima protested.

"How?" Drake demanded. "We heard that she's a traitor."

Saima hesitated, "She is; she betrayed the city and led our enemies to our gates…but Neverwinter betrayed her first. They killed her innocent lover, Fenthick. It doesn't excuse her," she added hastily. "But doesn't motive play into true justice as well as actions?"

Down below, Virenyr could almost feel the look Drake traded with Juliana. "True enough," Drake admitted, "To kill someone in the heat of passion, on the spur of the thought, is not as harshly punished as cold-blooded murder, every step planned out, every action weighed…at least in our world…?"

"And in mine – in this one – as well," Saima agreed. "But they don't even try her!" Emotion broke into her voice once more; this time raw fury. "They aren't going to give her a trial! They're just going to hang her. Like they hung Fenthick," she whispered. "It's not justice. The crowd screams for her blood and Lord Nasher will give it to them, just so that there is not a riot."

There was silence from the two Damaliti for a long moment, and then Juliana sighed, "It's not justice," she agreed wearily, "and only a fool would try to claim that it was. But what do you want us to do about it?"

"You said it yourself: stop it," Saima's voice was quiet with desperation. "No one else will. Those that don't want her dead bow to the will of Lord Nasher…who fears the mob. Fears what they'll do if he doesn't appease them."

"Why should we do this?" Juliana asked, voice just as soft. "What stake to we have in your world to care if one paladin is killed or not?" Virenyr could feel what Juliana wanted; the same thing she wanted anytime she took her Flight above and beyond the call of duty. She wanted payment.

Drake coughed, and Virenyr somehow knew that he was pinching the bridge of his nose, "Jul…Aribeth helped to heal your wound, after you collapsed. I couldn't do anything but petition our gods, and I'm no cleric. She had more success. Neither of us could heal it fully," he admitted, "but she tried just as hard as I did, and she didn't even know you. You owe her a debt of honor…and so do I."

Virenyr echoed Juliana's groan: when someone did a Damalit a favor without expecting anything in return, the Damalit was bound by honor to do the same in return, should the opportunity present itself. And the opportunity had defiantly presented itself. And while Juliana was a mercenary, she was honorable; because of what Aribeth did for her, she _had_ to help, and _couldn't_ take payment for it.

The huge black-bronze winced as up above, the Flight-Leader slammed her open palm down on the wood boarder of her bed, hard enough to cause a tremor in his mind. "Gods bloody it!" Juliana growled, then sighed once more, "Alright. I'll see what I can do. When's the execution scheduled for?"

"In half an hour."

Saima's hesitant statement caused Juliana to mentally swear, her curses echoing in Virenyr's head "You don't give us much time, do you?" she demanded, already throwing off the covers and struggling out of bed. "Drake, go ready Zirella. We're going to have to fly fast."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" the Wing-Commander asked dryly. "You don't have the strength to walk, much less fly!"

Saima interrupted Juliana's growls of annoyance, "I can help, if you'll let me." Virenyr heard her step forward and pull something from either her bag or a pocket, "This is a Lesser Potion of Heal. What it does is cure all wounds and weaknesses…for a time. As long as it lasts, you'll be fighting fit."

"As long as it lasts?" Juliana quoted back.

"Four hours, at best, if the injuries are serious. If they aren't…I've had it last twelve hours, but that seems to be the upper limit." Her voice turned bitter, "And once it wears off…all the wounds come back, along with any wounds gained after it was drunk. The backlash has been known to kill."

There was silence from the two Damaliti, and Virenyr could hear Juliana mentally calculating the risks against the benefits. _"Ah, screw it. I just won't get hurt. Virenyr, tell our Wing to get ready to fly. I don't expect them to be much help, but we can always use backup."_

Down below, Virenyr grinned and set about relaying orders; at least if they were flying together, he would be able to keep an eye on Juliana.

And above, the Flight-Leader grabbed the thin vial from Saima, lifting it up to her lips. At the smell, she shuddered, then threw it back as if it were hard liquor, shuddering all the while. "Nasty," she remarked, still swallowing to rid her mouth of the taste, "But it works."

Indeed, she could feel a pleasant tingling in her rib cage as the last after-effects of the arrow wound vanished. More than that, she realized as she stretched. The exhaustion that had come and lingered with the wound lifted from her, the last residual fuzziness of her mind burned away like the morning fog.

"Drake," she ordered, swinging around to the side of the bed, "Go harry my Wing, and ready Zirella. You," she turned to Saima even as Drake headed down the steps for his own quarters, "go down and have Virenyr tell you how to…" Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the ranger backing up, shaking her head with something akin to desperation, "What?" Juliana snapped, the other woman's fear making her edgy.

Saima continued to shake her head, the white of her eyes rimming her dark irises, "Dragons…I can't stand to be around them…"

Juliana paused, one hand still reaching for her discarded shirt. She canted her head to one side, then tugged the warm sheepskin shirt over her head, "If you cannot saddle Virenyr, then help me arm up. And explain yourself."

This task was familiar, the ranger having armed herself up countless times in the past six months, and it gave Saima something to do with her hands as she tried to do as the Damalit ordered. As she brought over the quilted undershirt, the shoulders heavy with chain mail links sown in as added protection, she began, "It's not like dragons burned my home down and killed my family. No, I'd never seen a dragon up close until…about a month ago. I sought the Words of Power, and…" She closed her eyes, "Two were with dragons. An ancient white, and an even older red."

"You had to fight them?" Incredibly, Juliana's voice was quiet and sympathetic even as she shrugged to properly settle the chain links.

Saima nodded, averting her eyes. "Yes. Both of them, more or less on my own. I…Flight-Leader, I _died_ fighting the red. I'm only alive now because the local clerics felt me go and were able to latch onto my soul, making it possible for me to be resurrected. That doesn't mean I don't remember…remember the darkness, the numbing cold…" she shivered, even now. "But that wasn't the worse."

Juliana raised an eyebrow, nodding to the heavy breastplate, "Just the breastplate; no pauldrons…or gloves or helmet for that matter. I don't have time to deal with all the clank. What was the worst?"

"The red…" Saima shook her head to clear her mind as she brought over the heavy breastplate, working the straps loose enough for the metal plates to slip over the other woman's torso. "The red was prolonging his life through dark magic – he would take a dragon egg, force it to hatch, and then make the hatchling mature in a matter of weeks, rather than centuries. Then he…he would kill them and steal their life force. To weaken him I needed…I needed to give him an essence orb from a dead dragon. But even though the hatchling was fully mature it was…it was a child, in its mind. And I had to kill it; kill an innocent child! I felt…tainted. Dirty. And I saw then, just how deep the evil went in them."

The Damalit gave a snort, correcting as she yanked a buckle tight, "Not all dragons are evil – just chromatics. Metallics…"

"Can be corrupted," Saima interrupted in an even softer voice. "Two of them, just before I fought Morag. One was a silver. So beautiful. And yet I had to kill it…her."

"Winds grant her soul rest," Juliana murmured in sympathy, both for the dragon and for the ranger.

"Perhaps." Saima took a deep breath, eyes flickering closed as she sought strength for the very crux of her explanation, "To see shadows in what should be light…it was terrifying. If a dragon, with all its strength, could be corrupted like that, then none of us is safe. And how could I tell if a dragon was good or evil if I couldn't depend on the color of their scales? I hate being afraid, hate being helpless, but I saw that next to a dragon…I was. Both afraid, and helpless. So the less I see of them, the less that I am reminded of…" she bit her lip, seeking the right word above her head.

"Your mortality?" the Damalit suggested.

Saima shrugged, "Mortality, yes. Reminded of my fear, of weakness, as well, I suppose. I'd just…rather not see them. Would rather not have to deal with it."

Juliana shrugged, "Your choice, but if you're going to stay here for any length of time, you'd better get over it, or learn to hide it well. Dragons and Damaliti both are…_very_ perceptive. Now," her tone lightened somewhat as she turned away, heading down the steps leading to Virenyr's quarters, "I am going to get your friend Aribeth, and I'm going to bring her back here. And then we are all going to go see Lord Nasher and work out a deal that gets her a trial."

"She's not my friend," Saima commented grimly as she followed halfway down, leaning against the handrail, watching as the Damalit settled the saddle atop Virenyr's back, in front of his wings, buckled the girths, and prepared to mount up. "But she served justice all her life – she should have justice in death. Justice that her lover did not have. The mob screamed for his blood as they scream for hers…and he was innocent. But he was hung without a trial. I don't want the city to get into the habit of not trying her criminals, even if they are guilty."

Juliana looked back over her shoulder, leather straps already twisted around her wrist, Virenyr's arched black-bronze wings half obscuring her face, "You do realize that her trial won't be fair?"

"I know." Saima almost seemed wistful, looking out the entrance to the blue sky above, "I know that they'll kill her regardless. But she will stand before a judge. She will hear the charges against her, and be able to respond to them. And who knows? Perhaps her words will sway the judge enough to let her live…"

"Imprisoned," Juliana pointed out, "And it is better to die then to live behind bars."

Saima shrugged, "You believe that, I believe that, but would Aribeth? And that's what matters."

The Flight-Leader inclined her head in acknowledgement of the point, then gave a hop-skip backwards. She stretched the leather straps to their limit, holding still for a moment, then surged forward, leaping upward. Her right foot was planted on Virenyr's pro-offered extended elbow, giving her a second boost upward. Her hands leapt upward to the cantle – back – and horn of the saddle as her left foot was planted into the stirrup. Then the leather strips were quickly shucked off her hands as her right leg swung over the high cantle, her foot sliding into the opposite stirrup. In spite of herself, Saima was impressed; the entire maneuver was smooth and practiced, taking no more time than she would use to mount a horse, even though Virenyr was many times the size of a common horse.

Her eyes now on level with Saima's, Juliana nodded once more, raising her arm in salute. But as Virenyr positioned himself at the entrance, wings arched to catch the wind, he commented to Juliana alone, _"Aribeth doesn't have a prayer of staying alive, does she?"_

"_No."_ His Damalit agreed, _"But like Saima said, it's the idea of it that matters, not the outcome. She must answer for her crimes, and it must be under the law that she is executed, not because the mob demands it. You know the saying in Oceana: Sacrificing to Chaos to appease him only invites him into your home."_

Virenyr nodded, voice soft as he added, _"Kill the one the mob demands, and you won't have a riot. It keeps the order of the city by undermining order itself. And above all, it isn't fair."_

"_Well, we're going to stop it. And find a way to get paid to boot."_

"_I was wondering when you'd bring that up."_

"_Oh, shut up and fly."_

The dragon's laughter morphed into a screaming battle-cry as he leapt out of the tower and into open air, wings half-folded. He dove down the side of the tower partially to gain valuable momentum, partially for the sheer joy of diving. And then his wings snapped open, and a single flap sent him and Juliana bounding through the sky, spiraling up, high above the Flying Fortress.

Out of the other towers spilled iridescent dragons, diving down the tower walls like kingfishers diving for fish, spiraling up like eagles, all following after her in a semblance of their standard flying formation – a long V with Juliana and Virenyr at the apex, and Drake and Zirella flying to her right.

She noted with some amusement that many of the Damalit following her were not those of her personal Wing, but members of one of the Squadrons that had not participated in the breaking of the siege four days ago. Juliana threw her head back and laughed; they had been chomping at the bit to fly in battle, each and every Wing flying drills almost daily. Well, she wasn't going to stop willing volunteers.

With a broad sweep of her arm, she gestured towards the swiftly approaching city, indicating to all their destination, and then lifted her wrist close to her mouth, and began to give her orders. They didn't have much of a plan, as usual, but she did have an idea…


End file.
